Demon Haunt
by Daxxers
Summary: War is coming. It's a dangerous time to travel across the kingdom, but four companions leave the safety of their homes and travel north to the moorlands, a place of past battles where two of them had known their greatest defeat, where one hopes to free a kinsman from limbo, and where another seeks to win the approval of her goddess in battle against a demon.
1. Prelude

**Demon Haunt**

Prelude

The tiny cottage was dingy and decrepit. Broken furniture lay on tattered rugs. Most of the wooden slats in the shutters covering the windows were cracked. The interior of the hut was smoky, no doubt due to a poorly maintained chimney.

The aged owner of the hovel cowered before her visitor, fearful of his stern glaze.

"Nothing else? You're sure?" the fat man barked at the old woman.

"No, my Lord, nothing! I'm certain." the crone whined.

The man wiped his sweaty face with a green silk cloth. Damn but it was hot in here! All this way and still nothing. None of his contacts had the information he wanted. He paid his informers well and paid those he set to watch the informers even better, but no solid lead for the last five years, only rumor and hearsay. No more time could be wasted on the old woman.

The man dropped some silver coins on the floor.

"For your troubles, old one. Good night to you." He turned and walked towards the door, looking forward to the embrace of the cool and smoke-free night air outside the hut. Perhaps it was time to take more direct action, even if it was forbidden by the Guild.

"Good night, Lord Harlock," the old woman bowed, finishing the bow by stooping further down to collect the coins that lay before her feet.

The man stopped short of the door and slowly turned toward the woman.

"How is it that you know that name?" he asked in a quiet voice that sent chills along the aged woman's bent spine.

She crouched over the money on the floor, head crooked around at a peculiar angle, looking up at him, fear in her watery eyes.

"Mi'Lord?" she asked.

"That name. From whom did you hear that name?"

The old woman looked around quickly from side to side like an animal in a trap.

"He told you, didn't he? No need to answer old woman, I see the truth in your eyes. He told you my name - a mistake on his part. All this time, all these years, you have collected silver from us both. Isn't that right? I paid you to spy, and he paid you to lie. So, now I know!"

The old woman cringed before the man. She slowly slipped to the floor, the coins forgotten.

"His actions prove his guilt. By turning you in to one of his spies he has betrayed the Guild. At last I have him! Your greed has made you less careful then one in your position should have been. You also have betrayed me old one, and that is something that cannot be left unpunished."

He advanced towards the old woman drawing a small dagger from beneath his robes. The firelight played across its blue blade causing the light to reflect on to the walls of the hut. That shining blue blade was the last thing the poor old soul saw.

A few minutes later the man called Lord Harlock left the cottage and walked to the carriage he had left waiting on the roadside. Still sweating from his work, he heaved his bulk into the seat and snapped a command to the driver.

"Back to Furness, and don't spare the nags."

He looked back at the hut and saw flames dancing in the windows and doorway of the old woman's home. By the time the coach reached the bottom of the hill the hut was ablaze. He enjoyed fire. It was cleansing. He turned in his seat and settled back into the comfortable leather. Soon it would be time to call on an old 'friend'.


	2. 2 Old Acquaintances Are Best Forgot

**Demon Haunt**

Chapter 2 Old Acquaintances are Best Forgot

**T**hree riders entered Vintesse as the sun was setting. Their equipment bore no crests or identifying colors, their armor was mismatched and their horses had the wild, shaggy look of the western plains. No one in Eastern Province would have mistaken them for Duke's men.

The lead rider, a large man in red much used and abused chain mail, rode with an ease earned by long hours spent in the saddle, his blond, braided hair streaming behind him. A dented and imposing horned helmet hung from the pommel of his saddle. A shield with a stylized boar's head was slung across his back, and fitted into a saddle sheath at his left side was a large sword. A smile crept out from underneath his graying mustache. After weeks of hard riding his destination was at hand.

The rider to the man's left also wore armor but hers was a fine silvery-white chain mail that, except for the dust of the road upon it, looked newly wrought. A small, plain circular shield was held on the riders left arm. A metal and leather helm covered her head; a slender mace hung at her hip. The woman was young, and beneath the dust of the road and the stern visage that she habitually presented to the world, not un-attractive.

A tall figure covered by a dark blue riding cloak, hood worn up, rode to the right of the man in red armor. No sword or shield could be seen on that rider or their mount. A short, intricately carved wooden staff was strapped across the blue rider's back.

The riders slowed their pace from canter to walk as they entered the village square. Their shadows stretched out ahead of them as they turned down a wide lane that led to a courtyard shared by the village stable and Vintesse's finest and only inn. A few words to the groom and three silver coins ensured their tired animals a good rub, fresh water and oats. The large man in the red armor hung his shield on his saddle's pommel, cradled his sword in his arms, and led the way to the front of the inn, peering inside the open doors of the common room. What he saw seemed to please him. He looked back to smile broadly at his two companions, winked and walked through the doorway. The young woman followed, shaking her head in frustration, the blue cloaked figure silent behind her.

The trio walked to the back of the inn's common room to a table occupied by a lone figure hunched over a tankard of ale. The hustle and bustle of the inn covered what noise their armor and spurs made. Leaping forward, the large man appeared suddenly beside the seated figure and in that same movement slammed his mailed fist onto the table and shouted, "It's the City Watch! Run for it!"

His voice raised the rafters and his mailed fist dented the thick oak of the table top. The poor, startled unfortunate seated at the table had just swallowed some ale. It quickly came back up through his nose. Coughing and retching, it took a few minutes to clear the drink from his throat, windpipe and nasal passages. Hearty whacks on his back from the man in the red armor did little to help.

Laughing at his jest the large man divested himself of his sword and helmet and seated himself at the choking man's right side. He beckoned to his companions, indicating that they were to be seated.

"Innkeeper, more ale here!" he bellowed.

"Well, old friend," the prankster smiled through his thick mustachios. "Caught you that time. You are slipping Torlin. Retirement does that. Sitting with your back to a door? You look awful! Just happened to be passing through and thought I should stop for a chat. What's it been, five... ten years? Here, let me fill that for you."

The big man took the smaller man's tankard and dipped it into the large bucket of ale that the innkeeper had put down on the table. He filled his own mug and nodded to each of his companions. The young woman, who had seated herself across from the big man, picked up the flagon the innkeeper had set before her and filled it. The cloaked figure sat down across from the man addressed as 'Torlin' and pulled a leather canteen from beneath his blue cloak. Uncorking the canteen, the blue-clad one poured a milky looking liquid into a mug.

The sputtering Torlin had cleared enough of the ale from his windpipe to finally speak. "Luthor Thalweg! What in the name of all your heathen gods are you doing here! We agreed we'd never again meet! Never, Luthor!"

The look on Torlin's face was a mixture of almost every emotion a human could have.

Surprise, pleasure, dread, anger, fear, but mostly, sorrow.

Luthor Thalweg smiled and stretched back in his chair, which groaned under the weight of man and metal.

"'Never' was too long a time, old friend. Besides, I heard you were drinking yourself to death. What's a friend to do? Thought I'd look in on you and see if I could help. Don't forget. I owe you much."

Torlin, recovered from the surprise and the choking, looked his old friend and new table companions over silently and took a sip of his ale. Curse Beshaba, Goddess of Misfortune, he should get visitors today!

"What was owed has been paid back many-fold Luthor. You are a long way from

Crescent. What's the matter? Lose your barony in a dice game?"

The young woman to Torlin's left stiffened at the taunt, looking from Thalweg to Torlin, not sure how she should react to the insult offered to her companion.

The Baron of Crescent, laughed and shook his head. "Gave up gambling a decade ago. Tanii's orders."

"How is your wife?" Torlin asked, glancing furtively at the young women seated at the table with them. Her jaw had clenched tightly shut and a small red spot had appeared on each cheek. Ah. That's how it was. Not a daughter and not just a comrade-in-arms. Well, Luthor had always liked them young, pretty and spirited.

"The Lady Tanii is fine, just fine. She watches over my barony and my children while I amuse myself by riding about the country looking in on old friends. She sends her love to you.

You always were her favorite scallywag, Torlin."

Torlin knew from Thalweg's manner and words that he was about to start in to the "the old times were the best times" routine. Torlin had to end this quickly before the stories started or they would be up all night re-living the good old days.

"Hold it right there, my Lord", Torlin spoke, interrupting Thalweg in mid-reverie.

"You leave your estates during a succession war and ride halfway across the Kingdom to a dusty one-inn town dressed as a common mercenary, accompanied by a neophyte Paladin and an elven Lore-Master, just to look up an old friend who would rather not see you?" Torlin shook his head in disbelief.

"What the hell are you up to?" the smaller man asked.

The young women's perfectly shaped eyebrows climbed high onto her forehead during Torlin's questioning. The blue cloaked figure's left hand rose to its hood and pulled it back to reveal the eerily handsome face of a male elf, silvered eyebrows drawn together in a scowl. Thalweg's blue eyes laughed silently at the reactions of his companions.

"I told you he was good! Didn't I Trissa? What did I say Soranyll? He's the man for the job! Had you two made out before you'd even sat down. I tell you, drunk or sober he's got the best eyes in the Baronies!"

Soranyll addressed the baron. "Identifying me as an elf is no great feat, Lord Baron. I would like to know how he knew I was a Lore-Master. You are certain that no one knew of our coming here? No word was forwarded? No message sent?"

"For the hundredth time in a week Soranyll, no one knows where we are. And as to how "he" knew what you are, well you could ask him yourself", was Thalweg's reply.

An uneasy silence grew between the elven mage and the baron. Torlin took no slight at the elf barley acknowledging his presence at the table. The arrogance of male elves was as legendary as the charm of their distaff counterparts. He knew how to deal with it.

"My Lord Baron," he addressed his old friend. "Please know that I could easily identify the paladin as such by her armor, weapons and self-righteous demeanor. The holy symbol of Zelia, Handmaid to the Red Knight, and Exarch of Quests and Justice, is proudly displayed at her throat for all to see. The fact that she is inexperienced is evident by the absence of scars on her youthful and beautiful face and the excellent condition of her weapon, armor and shield. They appear more for show, a vanity not smiled upon by the Red Knight, if my Temple learning was correct."

Torlin continued.

"That your hooded companion was an elf was evident by his bearing. They have that undeniable air of arrogance and superiority when in the company of humans. Besides, the wood-milk he poured from that water-skin meant he was an elf, druid or ranger – no one else can stomach the stuff. As for his being a Lore-Master, that was assumed. I recognize some of the runes on his staff. I can read some elvish, remember? Also, you and the paladin wear armor, a wise precaution in the middle of a war. Since the elf accompanies you and yet wears no armor that tells me that he is either a fool, a Herald, or perhaps a ranger? I've never met an elf who was a fool, and Heralds and rangers are more polite, so that leaves a magus."

Thalweg nodded his head at each point that his former companion made. During his recitation concerning her the young paladin's cheeks grew redder. She seemed on the verge of exploding. The elf's scowl disappeared. Soranyll glanced at Torlin and then looked back to the baron, his face now expressionless.

The baron leaned forward in his seat, the chair again squeaking in protest as his weight shifted.

"That famous Thieves' Guild training. I'm impressed every time I meet one of your 'brothers', Torlin. How is the 'family'? From what I've heard you got out just in time. Cut-purses I don't mind dealing with but what is with the cut-throat attitude nowadays? Your Guild Houses seem more interested in blood than booty. I've even heard that they now hire out tame wizards for some of their less wholesome work. Being pensioned off probably doesn't look too bad, eh?"

Thalweg was approaching a subject that Torlin did not want broached.

"What in the Nine Hells are you doing here Luthor? What do you need from me?" asked the ex-thief.

"Trissa. Get us rooms. Let's move to a more private spot. We've much to talk about. No more games, I promise. To answer your question about what I'm up to... well, it does involve "Hell". You see, old friend, I need your help to slay a demon."

It was bad. Far worse than bad. It was insane and impossible and just plain stupid, but

Thalweg was adamant. He wanted to try to kill a demon, again. Not an imp or a faerie. Not a fantastic creature like a gorgon or a hydra. Not even a dragon, and Tyr knew those were tough enough. He wanted to take on a real, live, conjured straight from some Hell, eat-your-soul, demon!

"Damn it Luthor, it won't work! We tried it once, over fifteen years ago! It cost us our friends! Dalin died fighting that thing! Ripped in two when his spell was turned back on him. Tanii was almost killed. Biorn and Karyla were killed! Crispen went mad afterwards, unable to deal with what he saw and what that thing did to him! Leanorall..." Torlin stopped, his heart again racing at the memory of that desperate battle.

"It is because of Leanorall that we must do this", the big man insisted. "I know the whole thing sounds impossible but I do not seek only vengeance. Some died, some survived, but one did neither. Leanorall was caught in that creature's enchantments and was confined to the caverns! We thought her dead all these years but she is alive! Well, not exactly alive, but not dead and not soul-shriven like Crispen, at least I don't think so, not yet anyway. Torlin, will you listen to me, let me tell you what we've learned?"

The ex-thief slumped back into his chair, his eyes looked at his old friend but he saw only the horror of yesteryear, the awful shadows clawed at him again as he ran. Her voice called his name. He shook his head trying to banish the waking nightmare. Managing to calm his racing heart, he focused on what the baron was telling him.

"Ten-and-five years ago we were too young and too stupid to know better. Life was a great adventure, wasn't it? Eight of us fighting side by side. What a band of heroes we made, what friends we became! We followed the tales of gold and jewels and even became rich a few times, eh? We were warned, but we thought we could steal treasures from a demon-haunted place. We were so wrong! Our strength wasn't enough, our magic pitiful compared to that of the hell-spawned abomination that walked those caverns, and our faith was found lacking. We lost and paid a terrible price."

The baron paused and took along swig of ale, his eyes staring back through time to that day of horror.

"I led that day, Torlin. I led all of us into death. But I know… I know, that that I did everything I could to defeat that thing! Four of us survived Torlin, and if I'm right one more may still be alive, or alive enough to be brought back from where it holds her! If that thing we faced has been named then we can stand against it! The elf has the information with him. You know your letters; you've had some Temple learning. See what we've brought. If we're right, then you will see why I say Leanorall can still be alive and you will also know why we must try to rescue her as soon as possible!"

Baron Thalweg looked at his oldest former friend, watched him struggle with the terror of that one short day from years past.

"You were the last one out Torlin. You and Leanorall got farther into the caves than

Tanii or I. You saw it all happen. I need your help. She needs it. Please."

Luthor's blue eyes held Torlin's gaze for a long moment. The thief turned away from that honest stare and quickly raised his ale cup to his mouth.

"Alright," he whispered, his throat tight. "No promises, but I'll listen."

What had been a foot-high taper was now only a stub, the small flame still alive but giving only a feeble light. Torlin's eyes hurt from reading so much of the fine elven script. Scrolls, maps, a small bottle of ink, a quill and some drawing sticks littered the table.

"Well?"

"Well what?" sighed Torlin.

The baron leaned across the table where he had sat silently and unmoving for almost three hours. He was tired and had no time for the ex-thief's evasiveness.

"What do you think, man?" There was a dangerous edge to the large man's voice.

Torlin sighed again. "It's possible. If what Soranyll has documented here is true, then it's possible."

"It's true." The elf stated. "I requested a verification from a priestess of Savras."

The elf smiled smugly at the look of amazement that quickly passed over the face of the human called Torlin. One did not lightly ask a verification of the clergy of Savras. While their verifications of truths and lies were almost always accurate the cost was very high. A curse, laid on the appellant, was only a part of the price. It would amaze the thief even more to learn that it was his friend Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent, who had paid that price. But it was not the elf's place to speak further on that subject. Soranyll continued.

"When you entered that cavern in the northern moors so many years ago, you came face to face with a creature of evil. By the creature's actions and appearance I have identified it as an Outsider, what you would call a demon, from the Abyss. Its mode of attack is the key to a more specific determination. The chill that radiated from it and which numbed your limbs, the ability to repel spells, the spectral talons that steel could not harm. The pains each of you suffered in its attacks and the fate of your cleric confirms that the creature was a Soul-Reaver."

The elf continued. "A Reaver's attack is always the same. An intense numbing cold followed by razor-sharp talons used to kill or wound. The effect that killed your mage Dalin lasts only a short while but is extremely powerful. Its attacks can paralyze its opponents. The talons later become spectral and attack the very soul of a being. The spiritual essence of its prey is captured and this is what the demon feeds upon. This is what happened to your cleric. He was soul-shriven. His soul was cut away from his body. Only the quick actions of the Lady Tanii saved his physical life - such as it was. His testimony confirms the information given by the Baron, the Baroness, and yourself."

The thief turned towards the Baron of Crescent, an eyebrow raised in silent question.

"Brother Crispen still lives - if you could call it living," the baron answered. "He was never himself after the fight in the caverns. I lost track of him after our band broke up. When Tanii saw you ten years ago she told you he was dead because that's what I had heard from friends of his in Bartletown. We found him at our door the next spring, stark raving mad. He now resides in a cloister at a small monastery in my barony. Tanii has the monks watch over him. He spends his days carrying out errands for the monks, tending a garden and reading in their library. Hasn't even been able to give a good Blessing since the day he was touched by that thing. He asks about you every Mid-Winter Holyday."

Torlin shook his head in sadness over the fate of a former companion. It would've been better for a man like Crispen to have died battling evil in his God's name.

"But you and I were also struck." Torlin shuddered as he re-lived the experience of ghostly claws tearing away at his very essence. "We did not end up like Crispen."

"We too lost pieces of our souls", answered the baron. A strange light shone in his eyes. "Or at least I did. The nightmares? That voice that calls from the dark? I prayed you were not so afflicted, my friend. It took years for those to fade from my life."

Torlin remained silent for a long moment. He had wrestled with those same hellish nightmares for over a decade. Only strong drink had numbed the terror and pain. The fears had recently faded, but still troubled him from time to time. The drink that had helped had become a habit.

"If Leanorall had been touched by that thing, would not she have suffered the same fate," queried Torlin?

"Not necessarily", the elf answered. "You see human, an elf's soul is tied to the natural world and its Clans' homeland. There is a vastness to it that transcends what mere mortal and human knowledge can perceive. Our souls are… different. An elf might survive the onslaught of a Soul-Reaver better than a human. At least that is the thinking of some of the Elders of my Clan. If their ruminations are true, then Leanorall's fate is a particularly loathsome one. She was frozen by the chill aura of the creature, unable to move. It would then attempt to separate her soul from her body and feed upon it. This would be impossible, so it would likely leave her there, trapped but not soul-shriven, not truly alive, but suspended away from death. This has been her existence for the past fifteen years. Limbo."

"If your guess is true", Torlin began, "then surely it would be better to take a large body of armed men, several clerics and a couple of mages, to go after the thing. Why me? Why this group?"

Thalweg answered. "We're in the middle of one of those stupid succession wars, as often happens when the baronial council fails to agree upon a new king. No baron or baroness would let a large armed group of elves cross their territory at a time like this. I can't send men without weakening my own barony's defenses and I will not sacrifice my family or my people for my own folly committed decades ago! So, it's just me, the mage, a little holy influence from our fair paladin, and you my old friend. I need a thief's skills. I thought you would want in on this. And Tanii suggested it. Come with us. I do need your help."

Torlin shook his head and turned to the elf.

"You tell a fascinating tale and what I've read convinces me you know what the creature is. But what you haven't done is proven anything. Leanorall might be alive, or not. She might be held in Limbo, or not. Knowing the identity of the thing might help you defeat it, or not. Answer me these three questions. First, do you have any proof, not just hopes and prayers, that Leanorall is still alive? Second, why the urgency? It's been years. You've ridden hard and far in just a few weeks and now sit here anxious for an immediate answer. And third and not least, what makes you think that you can defeat it this time?"

Thalweg replied for the elf. He held up three fingers. "In reverse order. Third. Naming the critter gives us the knowledge we need to banish it. Soranyll's been working a spell to do that." Thalweg dropped a finger, leaving two pointed upwards. "Second. Demons don't belong in this word. Something has trapped it or placed it here. According to Soranyll's calculations, confirmed by my monks, there will be some sort of 'celestial conjuration'..."

"Conjunction," corrected the elf.

"...whatever, that will weaken the bonds that hold that cursed thing in the caverns. If we strike when this conjunction is strongest, we stand a better chance of forcing it back from where it came, maybe even killing it. This 'conjunction' occurs in six weeks."

Another finger curled inwards leaving one pointing accusingly at the ceiling. "And first, I choose to believe that she's still alive and can be saved. If there is only one small chance, I must take it! Damn it man, I was responsible!"

With his last word Thalweg closed his hand into a fist and smashed it down against the scarred wooden table top. A crack appeared under his fist and the table sagged noticeably. The young paladin, who had fallen asleep on a bench at the far end of the room hours earlier, was startled to wakefulness. She quickly sat up one hand reaching for her mace on the floor beside her the other brushing straight brown bangs from sleepy eyes.

The baron stared hard into the eyes of the thief. Torlin met his gaze without blinking.

"Not good enough Luthor! Not good enough! I risked my life against that thing once before based on your "belief"! You were wrong then and you may be wrong now! It's not enough!"

Furious brown eyes glared back at dangerously narrowed icy blue ones. An angry silence stood between the two men. The elf spoke.

"Earlier I talked of how an elf is tied to the land of their Clan. What I tell you now is not widely known. I would prefer not to share this information with another human but you leave me little choice. Few who are not Tel-quessir can comprehend the true nature of an elf."

Soranyll paused, took a deep breath and continued. "Often an elf of my Clan carries with them a talisman from their homeland. It is created in a sacred ceremony not spoken of outside of the Clan. The rite involves the combining of earth, leaves and other ingredients special to the Clan and found only in that Clan's home forest, with the blood, tears, and sweat of the elf. Special magics are cast. The rite ties us to our Clan and our forests, no matter where we go, no matter how far we travel. Through it we are still a part of the Elven Realm, we still live in our forest and it in us. Do you recognize this, human? Have you seen it before?"

The mage held up a pendant in his left hand. It resembled a pearl about the size of a large pea. A faint bluish glow seemed to emanate from within the pearl. It hung on a fine silver chain that had been worked to look like a bow string.

Torlin gazed at the pendant, his practiced eye noting workmanship, assessing value. He caught his breath. It had been years ago, but it was identical. The first and last time he had seen that pendant it had hung about Leanorall's neck, the pearl framed by golden breasts thrust forward in eagerness to be caressed. It was two nights before they had entered the caves. Torlin shook his head to scatter the remembrance of that sharing.

"Yes", he replied, his voice raspy. "I've seen it before. How did you get it?"

"It is not the same pendant. It was recreated in Leanorall's home forest by her Clan. It holds the ….essence? No, the memory of her and her homeland. You've heard the saying 'So fares the Forest, so fare its elves'? They are inextricably linked. Hold the pendant. Consider its warmth. What do you feel?"

Torlin held the pendant between his hands. It gave off heat like a cup of mulled wine. He felt something. There it was again. Slow, steady, soft. His eyes widened in disbelief. He looked at each of them, baron, paladin and mage in turn.

The elf answered the unspoken question.

"Yes. It is her heartbeat. My niece still lives."


	3. 3 The Tax Collector

**Demon Haunt**

Chapter 3 The Tax Collector

**I**t was late when Torlin retired to his room on the garret floor of the inn. He had been shaken by Luthor's disclosures. To think that Leanorall could still be alive caused him distress, but no definitive answers had been offered, only the baron's belief and some elven magic. Those could not be trusted. He had been there, had seen and felt the power of the Soul-Reaver. Nothing had harmed it, neither magic nor steel. They had been foolhardy all those years ago, but they also had had youth, strength and numbers on their side. An aging baron, an elven Mage, a slip of a girl on her first quest as a Paladin-Elect, and a too-often drunk ex-thief were no match for a demon! The elf was a skilled mage, of that Torlin was certain, but Dalin had been no slouch in his day, and he had been killed almost instantly by a reflection of his own spell. Soranyll himself had said that magic was next to useless against the thing.

The Barony war would make travel dangerous and slow. The odds would be against them as soon as they left Vintesse. And six weeks would not be enough time to cross the Baronies to the Bakklar Moor. It was a hopeless undertaking.

Torlin was not tempted by Luthor's added lure of treasure. One more year and riches far greater than those hidden in a damp cave would be his. All that he had worked and fought for over the last ten years would soon be within his grasp. Years of planning, scheming and sacrifice could not be abandoned now. Not for elven magics and the bothered conscience of an aging hero who needed one last quest to impress his new, young lover. Lives had already been lost in the pursuit of Torlin's dream of freedom from the Thieves Guild. Guild brethren - true friends - had gone under the knives of the Guild Master's torturer. None had talked, some had died, and all had suffered. Torlin was the only one left who could complete what had been started years earlier. His answer to Luthor's request could only be "No".

As he lay in bed tempting sleep he tried to dream of riches and of the life of ease they would buy him, but dark shadows invaded that dream, their claw-like hands reaching for him, trying to pull him into a black pit.

Torlin woke late. He washed and dressed slowly trying to put off the moment when he must refuse his oldest friend. Finally, he could stall no longer.

Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent, sat slouched in a large chair in the inn's common room. Torlin walked towards him glancing about the room for the baron's companions.

"They're outside with my horse and gear, waiting." The baron spoke without looking at Torlin.

"No need to say it. If you were coming you would've said so last night. You've never needed a night to think over anything," the baron sighed. "I need a reason Torlin. Why not? It's Leanorall, for your god's sake. Why not?"

"You know as well as me, Luthor. I'm not free of the Guild. Not for another year. And I can't do anything without their permission. My minder would never let me go. You're asking me to give up everything for a whim, a quest. One more grand adventure that has less chance of success than our previous one did!"

"You're quoting guild rules and worrying about your pitiful little pension?" Baron Thalweg's voice was cold, a look of contempt on his face. "This is a friend's life I'm talking about!"

The smaller man looked away and shook his head. Thalweg scowled.

"I guess it was too much to ask of you. My apologies for interfering Torlin. Go back to your life and bottles. Have a drink. I'll find help elsewhere."

Baron Thalweg rose from the chair, tossed a coin onto the table, turned and walked to the door. As he reached it he half turned, and threw a last comment over his shoulder.

"Soranyll thought you'd join us but I guess Trissa had you figured out. A 'drunk, weak-willed, dissolute pickpocket' were the kindest things she said about you. If we fail - well, never mind. We'll probably all meet in Hell soon enough."

Torlin stood for some moments listening to the sound of their horses' hooves fade into the distance. He picked up the coin and put it in his belt. The autumn day was warm and damn, but he could really use a drink now. It couldn't hurt to continue with the charade. Someone in town would say something that might get back to Harlock.

Watching Baron Thalweg exit the inn alone, Soranyll reached into his left sleeve, pulled out a coin and tossed it to the paladin. She caught it, laughed, and with a touch of her spurs to her horse's flanks, started down the road that led out of Vintesse.

"A long way to come for nothing," stated the elf.

Luthor shrugged. "I'd have preferred his aid over hiring some Thieves Guild flunky. Guilt is cheaper than gold. But any skilled thief will do. We can hire one in Net, maybe even in Harvest or further north in Silver Tree. Simple contract, no questions."

"And once we've acquired the component for my spell?"

"Contract's done. We cut the guild-thief loose and head on to the Bakklar Moor to retrieve our prize."

"What about Lady Lutrissa?"

"Same. Once we have the item for your spell, she can be released from her pledge. After all, it's not as if we're really going to try to slay a demon. We both know that your "niece" is long dead. Trissa will be pissed off, but if we find what we think is in that cave, then I'll ask Duke Storm to make donation to her order. That'll smooth things over, somewhat."

The baron and the mage mounted their horses and followed after the paladin.

A voice called to him. The words were indistinct, but something in the tone of the voice was familiar. It called again. This time he could make out what it was saying. It was calling his name.

Torlin tried to peer through the mist that surrounded him, trying to see who called. The tone was pleading, desperate, begging something of him. As he moved towards the voice, a large shadow rose before him and grabbed at him with bloodied talons. He turned to run, panic gripping him. The voice called his name again. It came from behind the shadow, pleading for his help. He ran on, shadows all around, looming over him, striking at him. The voice screamed!

"Torlin!"

He awoke with a start, sweat beading his brow. Why had the nightmare returned after all these years?

"Torlin," called the familiar voice of the owner's youngest son from the hall. "Wake up.

Your guest is here."

The remains of the nightmare faded away as Torlin came more fully awake. He rolled out of his bed and staggered to the wash basin. Splashing cold water over his head helped clear his thoughts. His heart calmed and his breathing returned to normal. Drinking too much again, his head told him, a conclusion confirmed by a quick look in the small cracked mirror hung over the wash stand. Bloodshot, red rimmed eyes looked back from a face wearing a ragged beard which sported more white than brown. Last night he'd been downstairs drinking in the inn's common room. Now it was morning, two days after Luthor Thalweg had left Vintesse. Morning of tenth-day, just past the last days of summer, and that meant it was his "tax day". That was one reason why he'd been drinking. For on the heels of the summer's harvest came the tax collector. His own private tax collector, sent from the Guild House in Furness. Time to sober up and see if he could survive one more year.

Hung over, reeking of wine and squinting in the morning light Torlin descended to the common room still wearing yesterday's stained clothes. His "guest" was seated at the large corner table. Torlin put the dream behind him, crossed the room and sat down heavily in the chair opposite his nemesis.

"Torlin? Awake are we now, old friend?" Asked the fat man across the table from him. A concerned wrinkle sat on the man's brow. The look of a caring friend.

Torlin looked Harlock in the eye and grunted something between a curse and a hello.

"A fine morning to you too, my friend. Celebrating, were we? Well, your good fortune is the Duke's good fortune, or a small part thereof. Are you sober enough to talk business my friend? Good! Innkeeper! Some ginger tea, please."

Harlock started to rummage through papers he had pulled from a leather case, talking all the while about the province's harvest, the mines, trade balances, and making the standard "death and taxes" jokes. It was a convincing act. He played the role well, but Torlin knew that the ability to act and to lie were necessary skills in the Thieves Guild, no matter what your cover, merchant, tax collector, or drunkard.

"Now, to business. How is my old friend Torlin?"

There were several customers in the inn's drinking room even at this early hour, a few like Torlin recovering from the night before. Others taking a quick ale before starting their day's work. A lifetime of selling secrets had instilled caution in the Guild's representative. Harlock spoke in thieves' cant. Everyday words spun together in a rhyming, sing-song like patter that fooled the ear of the uninitiated. A whisper would attract attention, use of a foreign tongue would also be cause for comment, but a normal speaking voice, accompanied by smiles and friendly gestures, was neutral, safe, and hid the truth from the curious.

"Well enough Harlock, well enough. Did you have to wake me so early," Torlin groused?

"You can go back to sleep or to drink after I'm finished with you. Remember Torlin, Guild business comes first."

"Spoken like a true Guild brother, but I'm out now. I'll drink or sleep when I want to!"

"Out? Not yet 'brother'. You have one more year of scrutiny and until it's over you are still, officially, a member of the Guild." The voice was still soft but the 'tax collectors' eyes were like hard black stones.

"Why I might be here to order you out on a job. How about it Torlin? Have you any nerve left or has the wine destroyed what few talents you had, old man?"

Softly spoken words from a smiling face. Words meant to wound. This year's test?

Torlin responded with the appropriate amount of anger and injured pride expected of a drunk.

"Look who's talking about talent! An apprentice could sit around the Duke's Keep counting coins and passing on rumors to the Guild House at Capitol. When's the last time you picked a lock, or climbed through a window with that girth?"

The last comment was a dangerous one to have made as Harlock was sensitive about his size, but Torlin had to play his role of aggrieved drunkard perfectly. If Harlock uncovered proof of his decade old suspicions that Torlin had betrayed the Guild, then the next Guild 'brother' to call on him would be an assassin!

Strangely, Harlock did not react to the taunt. He smiled an odd smile and moved the papers about on the table. Both men sat back after the verbal exchange, and sipped their tea, to all appearances two old friends enjoying pleasant conversation and a morning cup.

Harlock shifted easily from anger to criticism.

"You just never had the temperament for the work," Harlock tut-tutted. "I didn't approve of your joining years ago and I don't approve of the Guild letting you off so easy now. Where's your loyalty man?"

"Loyalty? To what? After the coup and the removal of the Old Master the Guild became little better than an assassination league! I was a thief dammit, not a goon or a killer! And I wasn't the only one to leave. Half the Master Thieves in the guild took amnesty and left for the south or hired themselves out to the barons and dukes. Why give me such a hard time? I backed the wrong Guild Master and now I must wait years to collect what is mine? What loyalty could there be? And what's your problem with my leaving? You've checked in on me every year for four years. Probably hired others to spy on me to make sure that I'm not working behind the Guild's back. Isn't that the Guild way? I just want to be left alone. I'm out of it!"

"Well, well, I see I've touched a nerve," Harlock grinned. "Sorry to hear things aren't going well for you. Shame about losing the shop. Cheer up! One more year and you'll be a free man."

Harlock looked carefully at the ex-thief. Around forty, of slightly less than average height but solid build, graying hair, and this morning, red eyes. Dressed in yesterday's work leathers and smelling of smoke and sour wine. All reports pointed to a slow but steady deterioration. Increased drinking, decreased finances. His small shop in the village of Vintesse had failed and he was now working at odd jobs trying to save enough coin to get by. He might not last the next year of his probation even under normal circumstances. Harlock smiled. Torlin didn't have a year.

In keeping with his cover of a tax collector, Harlock went through the motions of reviewing Torlin's finances. He also informed Torlin that, to Harlock's personal distress, the Guild could not advance Torlin any monies to repurchase his shop from the local merchant guild that held Torlin's debt. As he was sorting through the papers that lay on the table before them Harlock talked, as he had every year for the last four, about old acquaintances and past contracts.

"Remember that gem that went missing just after the putsch? What was its name? The

Rose of Perkwer?"

"Pahkwar," Torlin corrected.

"Ah, yes. We never did recover it you know. Most strange. The Guild Master still has a reward posted for its return and the head of the rogue who stole it." Harlock continued to gaze at Torlin after he had finished speaking.

"I was cleared of any involvement in that," Torlin grumbled.

"Not to my satisfaction," the Guild agent stated peevishly. "As I recall you didn't spend much time with Alzalath's torturer. Perhaps we missed something? I understand that several of your friends didn't fare well under the questioning?"

"Especially Eric."

"Yes. Another one who backed the wrong Guild Master. He plead guilty to the theft then inconveniently died before we could find out the location of the gem. Alzalath suspected that he was poisoned by his accomplices."

"Accomplices? Now it's a conspiracy? That damn gem was probably never stolen but simply lost by the new Guild Master or hidden by the Old Master before his assassination. I suspect the former. Alzalath never could remember where he put things."

Harlock pursed his lips in disapproval. "'Guild Master Alzalath' to you. You backed the wrong side Torlin and look where it's got you. Living in a dusty little village, broke, waiting for your amnesty, and your only friend, a bottle."

"Are we finished, or must these visits get longer and more intrusive each year," Torlin queried?

"I'm done here. It's almost noon. Why don't you have a drink on me?" Harlock tossed a coin on the table. It was silver, minted in Capitol. Just enough to cover the tea and a drink.

"One more thing," asked Torlin?

Harlock looked up. "Yes?"

"I'd like my parole extended. Work is slow around Vintesse."

"To what distance?" asked the tax collector.

"Fifty miles," replied the ex-thief.

Harlock pursed his lips. He exhaled noisily through his nose then said, "Agreed. But you must stay in Eastern Province. The paperwork will take a week to be filed with the Guild."

"See you next year 'tax collector'," said Torlin.

Instead of a reply Harlock offered only a wintry smile. The gross man gathered his papers, rose and left the inn. A moment later Torlin heard his carriage rolling away, heading back in the direction of the provincial capital at Furness and the Duke's Keep.

Torlin sighed and slumped back into his chair. It was getting harder each year not to reach across the table and strangle the smug son of a bitch! Damn, but he could really use a drink now and someone in town would say something that might get back to Harlock, or at least to one of the Guild spies that Torlin hadn't already paid off. One more year! One more year of being the drunkard, of odd jobs and little money, then he would be free! Damn them! Damn them all! Every last sneak thief and cut-purse in the Baronies, damn them!

One more year and he would be free to finish his last "job", the recovery of a missing item. The fabulous gem, "the Rose", had been stolen by the Guild from a rich and powerful man over a century ago. It had become the Guild's prized treasure, until it was then stolen from the Guild by rogue thieves. The recovery and sale of that gem would let him disappear into one of the fleshpots of the south and purchase a dozen lifetimes of leisure. Torlin smiled as he dreamed of riches. He could wait. Patience was not only a virtue, but in his case it was survival.

One more year and he could leave sleepy Vintesse, leave manual labour, cow pastures and dusty winters. He'd miss the summers and the simple kindness of the people around him, and of course dear Kara. She'd not leave her little village, not for any man. Ah, well. One more year to enjoy her charms. He smiled and drank and started planning for next year's meeting with Harlock. After this was over and he was wealthy beyond most men's dreams, maybe he would hire an assassin and send him to Furness to visit a certain 'tax collector'. It would cost a lot. He'd want to do it right, which meant getting Guild permission. He smiled at that.

He tossed the silver coin to Ellie, one of the inns owner's daughters, who was cleaning a table nearby and ordered a mug of ale. A drink on Harlock was unprecedented. As was an extension to the limits that he could roam from Vintesse. And no questions about his drinking companions from two nights ago? Harlock's spies must have reported that incident, yet Torlin had not needed recourse to the simple lie he had prepared.

His stomach suddenly knotted. Generosity from the Guild official and a lack of interest in his meetings with strangers could only mean that Torlin was in trouble – again. The new ale tasted sour on his tongue.


	4. 4 Things That Go Bump In The Night

**Demon Haunt**

Interlude

**T**he fat man spoke softly and quickly to his companion in the carriage. He gave detailed instructions that included exact descriptions of hazards to watch for, the timing of the town's night watch, the hours that the stable boys rose to check on the guests' horses, which window to use to enter the room, an accurate description of the room's layout and who would be found there. It was an impressive and precise plan for gaining furtive access to a specific room in Vintesse's only inn. What was most impressive was that all the information had been gained second or third hand from Harlock's many sources, then seamlessly woven together by the Guildsman.

The weasel-faced man who shared Harlock's carriage nodded his understanding of the final instructions and exited the vehicle. The sun had set almost two hours past and the autumn twilight had turned into night. The man climbed onto a wagon. The driver, a large younger man, shook out the reins and the wagon started to move down the road towards Vintesse. They would arrive a few hours before dawn, when the night was at its darkest - perfect conditions for the pair to do their nefarious work.

Harlock knocked on the roof of his carriage, signaling the driver to start on the road back to Furness and the comfort of the Duke's Keep. He had preparations to make. His new watcher had already informed him of Torlin's visitors and their abrupt departure a day ago. One more matter to investigate and about which to question the ex-thief. But this time all of Master Alzalath's questions would be answered to Harlock's satisfaction.

Chapter 4 Things that Go Bump in the Night

**T**he floor board one step in from the window creaked. Torlin awoke instantly, dreams and nightmares banished. A large nail wedged between the dry oak floor boards made a faint but distinctive squeak when a weight was placed on it. That sound was one that Torlin's ears had been trained to respond to decades ago in the Guild school in Jurann. A simple warning device, one of two placed in his room. He focused on his breathing, keeping it regular, slow and deep. The relaxed rhythm of a man asleep.

The floor board creaked again as the intruder lifted his foot off the floor. The trespasser was less than ten feet from the side of his bed. Torlin continued to breathe evenly and deeply. No other sound was heard, but his training, experience and instincts told him that his nocturnal visitor was almost beside him.

Torlin's left hand grabbed his pillow and threw it across the bed toward the window. In that same instant he jumped from his bed, landing on the side closest to the door. The pillow flew straight for its target causing the intruder to hesitate as he batted the object out of his way. In that part of a second Torlin grabbed his blankets and with a flick of his wrist sent them billowing out to land over the intruders' head and shoulders. As "valor" was to Baron Thalweg, so "discretion" was to the ex-thief. He was at the door in an instant and would be out into the hall to rouse the inn before the invader could disentangle himself from the bedding.

The door refused to open. Jammed!

Torlin ducked just in time to avoid the cudgel. It hit the door next to where his head had been. He turned and with both hands pushed hard against his foe. The cloaked intruder grabbed Torlin by his night shirt and pulled him from the door throwing him back into the room towards the bed. Torlin allowed the larger man to spin him about and let momentum take over. He sailed through the air and onto the bed. As he hit the mattress he threw his feet and legs over his body somersaulting onto the far side. He was now several feet closer to an exit, the window, and more importantly, further away from the big man with the club.

A quick check over his shoulder showed Torlin that the intruder had closed the shutters and even in the dim light of the room he could see that they were latched. He wouldn't have time to get the shutters open and make it out before his assailant caught him.

He stooped and drew two small daggers from underneath his bed. The use of a club and not a knife or sword against him meant he was the target of a kidnapping, not a murder, so he had an advantage. His opponent would try to take him alive while Torlin had no such limitation.

He threw his first dagger as the dark figure charged silently across the room at him. Torlin leaped forward to meet the charge striking at the throat of his attacker with the edge of his left hand. It was like hitting a tree. A small grunt from his foe seemed to be the only response to his blow.

The cudgel swept downward connecting with his left shoulder with such force his whole arm went numb.

Torlin struck quickly with the dagger in his right hand. Chest, neck, face, anywhere that he might cut a major artery or tendon. His enemy changed tactics, reversing the club in mid-strike turning the spiked handle in to a stiletto-like weapon. Pain lanced through Torlin as the point dug deep into his back as he wrestled closer to his opponent.

Damn! How many times did he have to strike this man before he'd go down? He couldn't seem to strike a solid blow. Torlin couldn't play strength against strength. His foe was larger and stronger than he. A few more blows was all Torlin could hope to avoid, or deal out. Another solid hit by either end of the spiked club and he'd be done.

His opponent suddenly lurched to one side and sank to his knees clutching at his throat. His breath came in great gasps which quickly ended as he fell to the floor, dead at last from the poison on Torlin's blade.

Torlin sank to one knee beside the dead man, his own breath laboured. The poison was old and had worked slowly. He turned to the body of the failed kidnapper and searched the corpse, pulling a few items from hidden pockets, pleased to see that his fingers remembered some of their old skills. A ring, a scarf and some heavy twine cut into equal lengths, were all the man carried.

It was customary for kidnappers to work in groups of two to four. That meant an accomplice, someone to watch for patrols, have ready transportation, or jam a door. Torlin peered through the shutters into the courtyard below. Several minutes passed with the only sign of life being Poolka, the inn's best mouser, going about his usual route. Cellar, stable and kitchen were the nightly rounds of the owner's favorite cat. More minutes passed. A shadow in the doorway of the stable moved. Torlin was impressed. It was no easy thing to stand without moving for several minutes at a time. It took real discipline. The person below must be getting nervous about the delay.

Torlin moved from the window, dressed quickly and returned to the body. He removed the man's cloak and dressed him in his own nightshirt, then tied feet, knees and arms together with the pieces of twine, wrapping the scarf around the dead man's head. He then pulled the black cloak around himself and raised the hood. It was made of very fine material that seemed to soak up the feeble light coming into the room between the slats of the shuttered window. He thought it might be a Shadow Cloak - a piece of clothing that blended with its surroundings. He had heard of such things during his apprenticeship with Ozu but in all his years of thieving had never seen one. Little wonder he hadn't struck true with his daggers.

Moving to the window Torlin quietly opened the shutters. A cool breeze carried the smell of rain. He paused a moment enjoying the fresh air. Adjacent to his window, a slender rope hung from the roof to the ground. Torlin could make out a small, padded grapnel lodged in the eaves.

Carrying bodies over steep, slate-covered rooftops was not recommended by the Thieves Guild. He pulled the rope up and tied the loose end around the intruder. It was a struggle to lift the dead weight of the large man to the window sill and the act of lowering him to the ground was torture on his recently skewered back. His left arm was no longer numb - instead it tingled and burned and his hand felt as if hot pins were stuck in it. The body dangled from the rope about five feet off the ground. Torlin watched as a shadow detached itself from the stable doorway at the far end of the courtyard. Coming into the bright light shed from stars and a half moon which hung low in the western sky Torlin saw a man leading a horse and wagon toward the hanging body. Wagon, horse and man moved without a sound. Torlin clambered over the sill and waited. His timing would have to be perfect.

The wagon stopped beneath Torlin's window, the body of the intruder dangling a foot above its straw covered bed. The figure below climbed up onto the wagon and took hold of the body and began to untie the supporting rope. Torlin slipped out his window and slid down the rope, chafing his hands on the raw silk fibers as he dropped. The person in the wagon, realizing something was wrong, quickly looked up to the window just as Torlin's right boot struck their head. They fell to the floor of the wagon, unconscious.

Torlin was breathing hard. His hands were rope-burned and his shoulder ached. Blood still trickled from the wound in his back and now his right leg throbbed. It felt as if it were three inches shorter than its mate. Regaining his breath, he untied the intruder's corpse, letting it fall into the wagon. He removed the bindings and re-tied them about the wrists and ankles of his new prey. Climbing down off the wagon Torlin noticed that the wheels and the horse's hooves were wrapped in padded cloth that would muffle any sound they might have made on the courtyard's flagstones. He took the reins and led the horse and wagon back into the stable, where he closed the doors and lit a small lantern that hung on a post near the stalls. It shed a weak light, illuminating no more than a quarter of the stable. Horses nickered, rats scurried, and Poolka the cat watched everything from a corner.

Clambering back onto the wagon Torlin looked over his prisoner. He was a small weasel-faced fellow wearing a nondescript, but well-made, heavy dark-gray leather jerkin. Torlin searched him but found only a small pouch holding several silver coins. Looking around the interior of the wagon he uncovered riding tack, a few blankets, a pack that contained oats, a feed bag for the horse, and beneath the seat of the wagon, a crossbow and nine silver-tipped quarrels in a quiver.

The weasel-faced man groaned softly and started to move, trying to raise his hands to his head. Torlin cocked the bow, selected a bolt and slid it into place. He seated himself on the sideboard of the wagon facing his awakening prisoner, the crossbow pointed at weasel-face's throat.

The weasel-face one took several minutes to come to. He looked about him, tried to shift his arms and finally focused on Torlin. He gave the ex-thief a knowing smile. He sat silently in the wagon waiting for Torlin to speak or act first. It would have been interesting to have waited this one out, mused Torlin, but his wounds did not give him the luxury of time.

"What's your name, who hired you and why," Torlin asked?

"The first is not important, and the second and third questions will only be answered if you untie me and agree to accompany me on a short trip. I promise no harm will come to you, sir," replied the smaller man in a surprisingly rich, melodious voice.

Torlin nudged the corpse at his feet and raised his eyebrows in mock surprise.

"Hazard of the job. Obviously he was poorly trained. Defending yourself well should be no cause for concern. It's like this, sir. We were hired to carry out a task, as I understand you have been at times past. It was nothing personal, but now that you know the Guild is involved you have a duty to comply with Guild wishes and place yourself in my custody. Failure to do so means you'll be labeled Rogue, and at your age and virtually no resources that could only end badly. Surely you see my way is the only reasonable alternative?"

As he spoke the weasel-faced man leaned forward and stared intently at Torlin. His voice rose and fell in a curious cadence. The voice seemed to tease and caress words. There was a timbre to the man's voice that was quite pleasing. Torlin leaned forward to hear more of what the man had to say. The small movement caused his damaged back to protest by sending a fiery jolt of pain up into his shoulder. That spasm broke the spell created by that golden tongue. _Voice_! The little rodent was using Voice on him! Torlin sprang up and swung the butt-end of the crossbow into the man's face, knocking him back against the far side of the wagon. Weasel-face cursed at him in a high-pitched whine.

Torlin made as if to strike him again. "Try that Voice trick again and I'll kill you here and now. Same three questions 'brother'!"

"Ya don't scare me, old man," the small thief sneered. "If ya kill me ya'll be real dead right quick. The Guild'll see to that! But there's a chance for ya if ya come clean with me bass.

He has a few questions for ye, tha's all. I promise!"

Weasel-face's voice was now harsh and scratchy. The accent from the far west. Gone were the honeyed tones of a trained persuader. Torlin watched as the little thief spat blood from his cut lip.

"Look mate, ya're in trouble see? I can help ya out for a price. We can strike a deal, can't we, brother?"

A slight change in the tone of Weasel-face's voice alerted Torlin to danger. He lifted his crossbow as if to strike and the man stopped talking, cleared his throat and continued in his normal snivel.

"Sorry mate, but when ya've got a gift it's hard not to use it. Not many of the brethren ha' a Voice talent. Comes in handy with the lasses. Know what I mean?"

Weasel-face started talking in his normal voice repeating his offer to assist Torlin with his troubles, his eyes never leaving Torlin's face.

The third man had made no sound entering the stable and had almost reached the wagon. He was directly behind Torlin ready to thrust the pitchfork he had picked up at the doorway into Torlin's back, when long buried instincts came to the ex-thief's rescue.

Torlin whirled around, seeing only a blur of colours and gleaming metal moving towards him as he fired the crossbow. At almost the same instant he felt the wagon shift as the weasel-faced thief moved to attack.

Turning, he met Weasel-face's assault, using the crossbow as both shield and club. The small thief was free of his bonds and had produced a knife from somewhere. And he wielded it expertly. Soon the ex-thief sported a half dozen small cuts from the fine blade. Only Torlin's frantic blocking efforts with the crossbow and the minor magical effect of the Shadow Cloak had prevented weasel-face's blows from striking true. As the attack continued Torlin used the crossbow more to deflect thrusts than as a club for attack.

In a desperate move Torlin grappled with the smaller man hoping his greater weight would give him an advantage.

As they each struggled to end the other's life the two men fell against the wagon's sideboard and pitched over it to the hard-packed earthen floor of the stable. Torlin rose slowly to his knees, the wind knocked out of him, gasping for breath expecting to feel steel across his throat at any second.

Gaining his breath, he looked around. Lying beside him in a bloodied, crumpled heap was Weasel-face. A few feet from him, stretched out on his back as if resting, was a thin blond-haired man in patched green robes, a pitchfork held in one hand. His other hand was wrapped around the shaft of a crossbow bolt that protruded from his chest. Dead eyes stared up at the stable's rafters.

Torlin shook his head in disbelief. Torm's testes! Green-robe was obviously the third member of the team. If there were a fourth, then Torlin was as good as dead. He couldn't take any more. Lying back on the stable floor, he tried to calm his breathing. The smell of horses and straw filled his nostrils. A flicker of movement to his left forced him from his reverie. What now? He turned his head to the side and beheld Poolka, the cat, sitting beside him, large green eyes staring questioningly. Tolrin reached out his hand to stroke the animal. Poolka batted it away. The black feline stretched effortlessly in that way that cats do, then sauntered off. Torlin groaned, rolled over and staggered to his feet.

He shook his head clearing the cotton from inside it. Can't stop now, he told himself. Must keep moving. Look around. Bodies. Must hide the bodies. His old training took over. Torlin searched the bodies, checking Weasel-faces' again but this time with greater care. He had missed the knife the first time. What other items were to be discovered? He found nothing until he got to the boots. Inside each boot was a well-crafted sheath, the left boot sheath was empty, probably the former residing place of Weasel-face's knife. The right boot sheath revealed a small slender leather case which when opened revealed fine steel tools. Picklocks, a small saw, pins and some wire. All the tools were of the highest caliber of craftsmanship. The tools of a Master Thief. Torlin had once owned similar tools.

He slipped the case into his shirt, stripped the leather jerkin from the body and stuffed the jerkin, knife, cross-bow and quarrels into a leather sack he found in the wagon.

Turning to the body of the man with the pitch fork he searched it carefully, finding nothing. The man was about thirty years of age with reddish hair, a sandy beard and dressed in cheap looking robes. Torlin had seen him at the inn yesterday. A merchant, or so he had been told by the owner's wife. He would have been the inside-man, the one who had jammed Torlin's door. If Torlin had made it out into the hallway, Green-robe would have been there, waiting for him.

Torlin rolled the body of his first attacker onto the stable floor. He then unhitched the horse from the wagon and using a rope he found hanging from a peg on the wall tied the bodies to the horses' harness. He then led the horse to the back of the barn underneath the hay loft, dragging the bodies behind. In a few minutes he had them well covered with hay. They would likely be found in three to four days. Sooner if the weather warmed up. He led the horse into a stall and removed its harness. It was a fine beast, no mere draft animal but a riding horse by the marks of saddle and cinch upon it. Trust the Guild to steal the best available. Torlin finished his work by removing the padding from the beast's hooves and the wagon wheels and tossing it all onto the trash pile near the double doors. The wagon was too large to hide; he left it where it stood.

A check of the courtyard showed it to be empty. Keeping to the shadows as much as possible the ex-thief crossed the courtyard and circled the inn arriving at the inn's large double doors just as dawn touched the eastern sky. The doors were, by both custom and law, unlocked.

He quietly slipped inside the building and crossed the common room almost as silent as a shadow. Two late-night revelers slumbered at their tables and Garsha, the inn's dog, slept by the embers of the fire. She was old, mostly deaf, half-blind and showed no sign of being aware of Torlin's near passage through the common room and up the stairs. He stopped before his door, lowered the sack to the floor and pulled the thieves' tools from his shirt. It took several minutes for him to pry loose the barbed metal wedges that Green-robe had fitted between his door and the frame. Entering his room, he shut and barred the door behind him, crossed to the window, pulled in the rope and grapnel and then closed and fastened the shutters. He didn't remember walking to the bed but suddenly it was there, under him. He lost consciousness just as sleep came.


	5. 5 On The Road

**Demon Haunt**

Chapter 5 On the Road

**I**t was past mid-day when Torlin woke, aching and stiff. He limped to the wash stand and cleansed his wounds as best he could. His left shoulder was badly bruised, his right leg ached, and his face and body sported numerous nicks, scratches and contusions. Digging into the chest at the foot of his bed he pulled out a heavy blue glass jar. Opening it he looked inside then quickly turned his face away as a pungent odor arose choking him and causing his eyes to tear. He stuck his hand in the jar and drew it out, his fingers covered with a greasy, white ointment. He awkwardly spread the lotion on his wounded back and some of the nastier cuts on his face, arms and chest.

Once dressed, he limped down to the common room and seated himself in a large chair in the far corner. He had an excellent view of the room, including the front door, the stairwell and the hallway that led to the kitchen. The sun had passed its zenith and shone brightly through the west window. He sat close to that window. Anyone glancing into the corner of the room would only see a dark figure outlined by the light; they would have to look closely to make out who was seated there. He ordered tea and a light meal from one of the serving girls. Sitting back, he relaxed his muscles and let the healing unguent do its work.

It was slow at the inn that afternoon. He dozed for a part of the day, awakening each time someone passed near his corner, entered the inn, or used the stairs. Twice that day he attracted someone's attention. The first time was when a stranger entered and carefully scanned the common room. Seeing Torlin in the corner the stranger started, then hurriedly left the inn without ordering drink or food. The second time was an hour later when one of the local blacksmiths, Vintesse had two, wandered in and sat down to chat with some tanners who had arrived moments earlier. The smith ordered a drink and only half finished it before leaving through the back entranceway. In the quarter hour he had been at the table he had looked around the room and eyed Torlin several times.

After finishing his second pot of tea Torlin rose and headed for the jakes. They were located at the back of the inn at the far side of the courtyard opposite the stable. Having answered natures' call, he reached above the door and pulled out a folded scrap of parchment that been stuck into the lintel. Printed in crude letters was a simple message. He crumpled the paper and dropped it down the shitter. Leaving the jakes, he wandered over to the livery and looked inside. The wagon had been moved to a corner of the large stable. The horse that had pulled the wagon was still in its stall and the large pile of hay at the far end of the building looked to be undisturbed. Two rats stuck their heads out from the hay pile, and twitched pink noses at the world, then wriggled back under cover. They would feed well for days Torlin opined. The sun was setting as he left the stable and returned to the inn. He climbed the stairs to his room, his pains now only dull aches.

The message from his friend the blacksmith had been clear enough. Someone had been asking about both himself and the 'merchant' who had entered the inn a day ago, and one of Torlin's paid informers had died in a fire. Harlock's work? Guild suspicions had been raised, and now, due to Torlin's actions of last night, confirmed. He cursed himself for a fool. He should have fled the inn the moment Harlock had paid for his drink. He'd rested for as long as he dared - he could heal on the road. They were closing in on him. It was time to leave Vintesse.

Torlin spread out his belongings on his bed, including his new possessions garnered last night. His afternoon musings and the message from the smith had led to one, inescapable conclusion - flee or face capture and death.

Harlock had left Vintesse over a day ago and it was a long day's travel to Furness. Even if the guild representative had driven his horses hard, changed them at the post station and drove through the night, he could not have arrived at Furness, planned Torlin's kidnapping, and sent a team back to Vintesse in so short a time. So, he had known about Torlin's deceptions before their meeting two days ago. A cat playing with a mouse. No wonder he had been so unflappable, so arrogant, and so generous. Torlin's use of some of Harlock's own paid informants against him had always been a risk. He, or they, had erred. Discovering Torlin's deception had confirmed Harlock's suspicions that he was up to something outside his guild approved tenure. A quick kidnapping, a few days with one of Alzalath's torturers, and they would have had their answers.

But Harlock had erred. The planning of the job was good, little details were neatly taken care of, the trade mark of Lord Utherden Harlock. But he had repeated the mistake he had made years ago in his dealings with Torlin. In his arrogance he had underestimated Torlin's ability to take advantage of circumstance. Too much confidence had been placed in the young thief who had entered Torlin's chamber. The Old Master had always lectured that "Attack should never be made on ground the prey knows well". In a caper such as last night's Torlin should never have been given the chance to take the initiative. He would not have made that mistake, nor he suspected, would have the weasel-faced thief. And that was where Torlin's luck had been greatest. He knew that in open combat, or other competition with Weasel-face, he should've lost. The little man had been good. Very good. Voice-talent, skilled knife-fighter, high quality tools, intelligent, good with knots. Probably a Master Thief. Killed by a fall from a wagon. Too many years had passed since Torlin had seriously used his own skills. Time, and too much drink. Only the favour of Tymora, Goddess of Luck, had allowed him to survive last night.

The ex-thief changed into work clothes - heavy cloth shirt, pants, and riding boots. He put on the leather jerkin he had taken from the weasel-face. It was too tight around the middle so he left the laces untied. It could be sized later. He arranged the thief's tools in his right boot and a knife in his left. One of his throwing daggers he placed in his belt and the other in a sheath strapped to his forearm hid beneath his shirt. He donned the Shadow cloak, now torn in a half dozen places but still effective, and began filling a pack with a change of clothes and sundry items. The jar of healing ointment, a few trinkets from his storage chest, and the odds and ends he had collected from Weasel-face and his friends all went into the pack. The cross-bow and quiver of bolts he left out on the bed, ready to hand.

Torlin wondered about the fourth member of the team sent against him. The stranger who had entered the inn that afternoon and left so hastily after seeing Torlin alive was likely a 'watcher' - a thief assigned to observe and report on other thieves' performances. When Weasel-faces' team didn't show up at the appointed time or place the watcher had gone looking for them. If Torlin's reasoning was correct, then the watcher would be riding hard to Furness at this very minute, anxious to report to Harlock who would waste no time in securing the services of other Guild members to track down Torlin. An assassin could be after him within the week, sooner if Harlock had one in Furness and didn't need to send to Capitol. It was also possible that Harlock would enlist the aid of his patron, the Duke of Furness. Trumped up charges would be made - complaints of 'tax evasion' usually got the attention of the duke and his soldiers.

Torlin collected several silvers and two gold coins from various hiding places around his room. He stuck them in his purse which he hid beneath his heavy belt. Turning to the table he scooped up the stubs of three candles and put them into the pack. A fourth candle stub he held to the flame of the lantern which sat at his bedside. The wax melted and dripped away revealing a small blue gem. He took the sapphire in his hand, raised it to his mouth, and swallowed the jewel. If a thief, bandit or one of the duke's tax collectors found it inside him? Well, by that time he would be in no shape to care.

Gathering the pack, he slung the cross-bow and quiver over his shoulder and left his room. Quickly descending the stairs, he turned left, walked along the short hall to the kitchen, entered and glided through the busy room avoiding collision with serving maids and kitchen thralls. Passing by tables filled with breads, pasties, autumn fruit, and cheeses prepared for the gathering dinner crowd in the common room his hands quickly gathered supplies for his journey. As he reached the back door leading to the courtyard and stables, he passed Anna, the owners' oldest and most curvaceous daughter. He stopped, looked into her eyes, smiled and passed her a coin.

"Defy your father. Do not wed that wretched, wrinkly old merchant he has chosen for you. Marry the damn blacksmith you keep making eyes at."

Then he was out the door and into the darkening night.

Anna looked in to her hand and saw the glint of gold. With wide eyes, now filled with tears, she watched the quiet man who had rented their garret room for two years walk across the yard and enter the stable.

It was but a moment for Torlin to saddle the horse he had appropriated from Harlock's men. The animal was docile enough and seemed not to care that he had a new owner. He walked the horse out of the stable, through the courtyard and into the street. Raising the hood of his cloak he mounted and set off through the streets of Vintesse.

The realization that after all the years of scheming and waiting his dream of recovery of the fabled jewel, the Rose, had to be abandoned, caused an almost physical pain. The theft of that gem from their own Guild's treasure room, had been the heist of the century. Not even the King's treasury was so well guarded. A day after the theft he and Eric confessed to the old Guild Master. For the successful commission of such an audacious crime against the Guild itself the old man granted them Master Thief status. Their newly earned glory had been short-lived.

Before their brethren could hear their story, a coup brought Alzalath to power that very night. The same night saw the death of the Old Master and the end of the old ways. The new order brought chaos, suspicion and death. The Guild crumbled, splintering back into its ancient component parts; Thieves Guild, Herald's Order, Brethren of The Bards, and Assassins Guild. After several years the Thieves and Assassins Guilds formed an uneasy truce. Alzalath's rule, based on fear, kept things in order. Former Master Thieves were either brought back into the fold, or if less than reliable in Alzalath's eyes, were pensioned off or just disappeared. Bad luck and ever-changing rules pushed away the dreams of many, including Torlin.

He was now Rogue; a thief with no Guild to protect him and no fortune with which to buy back his life. There were few hard and fast rules in guilds anymore. Protection of the craft, its members, and accumulation of wealth, drove every Thieves Guild. There were few crimes against a guild that could not be forgiven if sufficient gold was offered up. But stealing his blood-price was out of the question. Harlock would set that far beyond what he could acquire in a lifetime of thieving. Torlin's only hope lay in finding a haven or entering the service of a powerful ally or protector. It was rare, but other rogues had successfully found protection and employment with noble houses. The laws of the Kingdom of the Baronies would allow him to claim sanctuary of a landed knight, baron or religious order. No Abbot or Abbess would let him remain more than a day in their priory, so his protection would have to be from a Lord or Lady. One willing to pay a high blood-price to the Guild for his life and services. Perhaps a baron who wanted a favor from him?

Torlin reached the edge of town and turned onto the West Road. He was but a few days behind Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent. It seemed that he was destined to accompany his old friend on one last adventure. He shivered as he imagined a shadow-thing sitting in a cave far to the north, smiling and beckoning with taloned hand.

Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent, Knight of the Lakes, Slayer of Mint, the Dragon of Western Province, was, to put it mildly, in a bad mood. To Soranyll it looked like a thunderstorm was occurring around the baron's head. His face was almost purple, his muttering sounded like distant thunder and his eyes flashed as lightening. He paced up and down the small meadow crushing grasses and flowers beneath his large boots. A third of the meadow was already churned to mud. Every six or seven steps he would turn and glare towards the south end of the field where the fair Paladin-Elect knelt in silent prayer.

"How long does she need to pray?" he bellowed to no one in particular. "It wasn't a visitation. It was a rainbow, that's all. Tell her Soranyll!" He turned in frustration to the elf for the third time that hour.

"It was quite spectacular, whatever it was," the elf hedged.

"A trick of the light, some forest mist, or the fatigue of the road. Nothing more," Thalweg stated. "We are wasting time! The 'conjunction' won't wait, the damn war won't wait. Can't she pray while she rides? It's bad enough she says her prayers each night. Talk about killing romance. What does she want of her deity now?"

"It is what my Goddess wants of us that is important, Lord Baron," said Trissa as she walked up to the man and the elf. "Zelia, beloved of the Red Knight, has answered our prayers my Lord. We must wait for a day, maybe longer. Aid is on the way."

The baron looked at the woman with astonishment.

"Are you mad girl? We have no time to waste," he thundered! "Armies are on the march all around us! If I'm discovered and captured or delayed by some uppity little duke or baron everything will be ruined. We are leaving Eastern Province tomorrow. Tell that to the red-plated bitch!"

The baron strode to the hobbled horses, untied his and, weight of armor notwithstanding, mounted easily. He turned left onto the road that led to the border of Eastern Province. A day's ride and they would be in the Central Baronies. One day closer to reliving a nightmare; one day closer to his goal.

The elf mounted and followed after the baron leaving the paladin alone in the meadow. She looked about her. What a curious and charming a little spot to encounter her Goddess. She was tired from the commune with her deity. Such engagements were often physically demanding of her but the spiritual rewards were worth the cost. She called her horse to her, slowly climbed into the saddle and set off at an ambling gait after Thalweg and the elf. Luthor would not ride too far before cooling off. He would find some excuse to wait for her and then she would convince him of the need to answer her Goddess' call. She wondered what gift her deity was going to send them to aid their quest. An army to follow Baron Thalweg? A cleric of the Triune Faith to smite the demon? Perhaps elves from Leanorall's clan to assist their travel with strange magics? She rode a little faster, a smile on her comely face and a light of hopeful wonderment in her young eyes.

She caught up with Luthor and Soranyll at a small inn at the southern end of the border town of Harvest. 'The Green Goblin' was almost a century old and in that time had received no more than makeshift repairs. Sagging, dirty, and dilapidated - her mother, the ever-polite Lady Gwenith, would have termed it 'humbly quaint'. She entered the common room just as Luthor was slapping the bottom of the serving wench and ordering another bucket of ale. The woman was grinning foolishly and busy re-arranging her blouse around her ample bosom. When Luthor saw her at the doorway he looked down at the cup of ale in his hand and slowly raised it to his lips. The lascivious grin he that had been on his face slipped away and the dark thunderclouds returned. She decided against speaking with him for the moment and looked for the elf.

Soranyll was sitting by the fire warming himself, taking no notice of the baron's behaviour. The Paladin-Elect walked over to the elf and sat beside him. She took her gauntlets off and turned her hands to the fire. Its warmth felt good to her half-frozen fingers. After the last few days of hard riding, most of that through autumn showers and wet mud, the small comforts of the road were more attractive than the most sinful of pleasures.

As if reading her thoughts, the elf spoke.

"The road will only get worse. Cold and snow as winter approaches. Our journey takes us through warring states and into great danger. Each individual challenge is not so great but it is the accumulation of afflictions that wears on one. Cold every day, hungry most nights, never fully rested, always watching and expecting the worst. It tires and numbs the spirit."

The young paladin thought carefully before she spoke. It seemed so easy to annoy elves. Kneeling in the cold wet grass during her orisons was nothing compared to the rigorous training she had undergone to become a Paladin-Elect, but the challenges faced by the initiates were carefully controlled and staged to test for specific traits. This was her first quest and she appreciated the elf's interest and words of warning.

"My faith shall see me through each test, Lord Soranyll. If your niece can withstand the rigors of Limbo for near twenty years then I will endure the travails of the next two score days to help free her. But to be successful we must wait for the aid that was promised. I know that elves are leery of human beliefs and that our deities are alien and uncomfortable to many of your kin, so I ask that you have faith in me, not my Goddess, when I say we must wait one day. If the road ahead is as you say, then a day's rest might do us good and it would certainly benefit our horses."

The elf's strange green eyes held her gaze for a moment.

"Very well," he said, a small almost human smile touched the corners of his thin-lipped mouth. "For the horses."

He stood and moved to Luthor's table. Seating himself beside the baron, Soranyll drew out a map from beneath his cloak and spread it out on the table. He pointed to some part of it and spoke in quiet tones to the baron. Thalweg shook his head, murmured something in reply and pointed to another section of the map. This continued for almost a quarter of an hour. The paladin, now sufficiently warmed, rose and went to the table. She quietly and unobtrusively sat herself across from the baron.

"Then what is the hurry Luthor? If we take this route, we save time and pass safely through Morden's lands. His men are in the field so we will only have trouble getting across the borders. Once inside the Barony of Net we will make excellent time on those fine roads of which he is so proud. You are the one who brought up the matter of our horses Luthor. Rest them now so that they are able to make the best use of Morden's roads."

"True," muttered Thalweg. "If the information our well-endowed serving girl gave me is near the truth then the Baron of Net's army is very close. He will officially stay out of Eastern Province and should be moving south along the border. Hmmm, alright, damn you. We wait for him to move on. No use running into his scouts or a light cavalry screen. Another day and the most we'll have to worry about are some outriders. They'll not be able to stop us. If we are discovered they'll send word to Baron Morden, but by the time that idiot makes up his mind to catch us we'll be half way through his barony! Very well, you get your day."

He looked up at the paladin. "But not 'cause your goddess wants it. We wait 'cause it makes sense to wait."

That night the paladin and the baron slept in separate beds.

The next day's rest was a blessed relief. The trio had been riding hard. Luthor and Soranyll had crossed the Kingdom of the Baronies from Crescent in the west, to Vintesse in the east. Much of the trip had been on Royal roads but poor weather had delayed them. With only a stop of a handful of days at a villa inside Capitol that belonged to a lecherous elderly duke, an acquaintance of Luthor's, and a day in Vintesse, they had hardly been out of their saddles.

That night when the locals gathered in the common room to drink, they talked only of the growing war. Alliances were being forged, and hostilities were spreading between neighboring provinces and baronies. The old-timers lectured everyone who would listen about the last War of Succession and were free with their opinions about this one. Raised in comfort on her mother's estates in Southern Province Trissa knew little of the politics of Capitol and the other baronies. Her training for Paladin-Elect had been confined to religious instruction and weapons classes. She found the evening an informative one.

Most of Western Province was united behind its duke, old Theo Storm, Lord of the Lakes. Thalweg had told Trissa that Theo had contended for the crown in the last Succession and many said the Council of Barons had erred when it had passed over Theo and bestowed it on the young son of the recently deceased Baron of Forge. Peace had been purchased, but at a price. The Council, as they so often did, selected a weak King. Over the next twenty years the Kingdom of the Baronies returned to a warring collection of semi-independent states as the King was unable to control his dukes and more powerful barons. The Council, composed mainly of the nobility, with a small number of churchmen, and several representatives of the major merchant houses and guilds in the Kingdom, had not seen fit to allow him to name an heir. The King abdicated, returning to his barony and leaving the Kingdom without even a titular head. As the Council could not unanimously decide on a replacement, an Election was called and, as in the past, candidates sought to buy support and intimidate their opposition. It wasn't long before half of the Council's honour was insulted, taunts became accusations, and soon it was war, again. The now elderly Duke Storm again put his name forward for the kingship, but this time backed his claim with an army.

The old duke was astute. Theo had no misconceptions about his chances of defeating the other barons and claiming the kingship. Even if he won the war he was too old to hold the throne for long and had no legitimate heirs near the age of majority. His two children had died several years ago, the son from plague, and the daughter in a riding accident. His grandchildren were too young to rule without a regent, and regencies were difficult to maintain in the Kingdom of the Baronies. It had been the baronies' historical truth that a regency led to civil war more quickly than any other form of rule. Yet with age and lack of heirs against him, Theo had still declared himself. His actions forced others to declare where they stood and whom they backed. Lines were drawn and alliances were contrived. It was widely believed that Theo would withdraw his claim as soon as a suitable candidate declared. He would then place his not unsubstantial resources at that candidate's disposal. His price would likely be a royal marriage for one of his grandchildren. If he could not be a king, his descendants might.

The only other candidate to declare so far was the Baron of Spike. The Barony of Spike was historically aligned with the merchant guilds and the mercenary's guild. The barons' army always had the best equipment and the toughest soldiers; however, for as long as there had been records kept, that barony's forces were only ever used for defense. The ambition of conquest had always been lacking in the family. That was until the latest baron had assumed his fathers' chair at the Council table. Kerrogan Splorr, Baron of Spike, was young, wealthy, attractive, ambitious and ruthless, and did not hesitate to use his forces for conquest of adjacent territories and intimidation of his neighbor barons. It was rumored he had made use of Thieves Guild assassins several times, removing older siblings and finally his own father so that he could wear a baronial circlet. While the Baron of Spike was a strong candidate, he was not a popular one, and for Theo Storm, definitely not a suitable one. But, other than Duke Storm, there was little open opposition to the grim, young baron from Southern Province.

Autumn and winter would be taken up by armies testing their mettle in raids against other baronies. Old foes might take to the field and attempt to settle grudges, and some of the slanders spoken in the Council chamber would be avenged on the battlefield. Armies would move about the countryside, maneuvering for position, but few pitched battles would be fought by any but the armies of the candidates for the kingship, and those battles would be against their opponent's allies. The two strongest candidate armies would meet after winter somewhere in Central Province. The War of Succession would be decided on a grassy field some sunny day in spring where the youngest and best the Kingdom had would give up their lives so that someone else might have the benefit of taxing their widows and orphaned children.

"In the old days champions had fought to decide who would be king. In times past barons themselves fought hand-to-hand, witnessed by the Council, the winner claiming the throne, the loser buried in a soon-to-be forgotten grave with little pageantry. But those were other days, days of heroes. And now few men would risk all with only a sword and shield in their hands! In almost three centuries we have yet to see the likes of another such as good King Tristan!"

Trissa yawned and shook her head trying to stay awake a little longer. The yarn spinner at the table next to her had been telling all who would listen what he thought of the political situation in the Kingdom. From what little she knew of politics it had sounded believable enough. She turned to the young soldier who shared her table. He was quite drunk and could not possibly perform the magnificent acts of fornication he had promised her. As she was after information, she tolerated his idiotic boasting and groping hands.

"Do you think he's right," she asked him, nodding towards the speaker at the next table. "Will it be the Baron of Spike against old Theo Storm?"

The guardsman shook his head in an exaggerated motion, leaned forward, looked down her dress and hiccupped.

"Naw a shance! Storm's too old. Need a younger fella to go up against Spikey. Take my guy, Baron Morden of Net. Now thas a guy who'll make a king. Jus' wait n' see."

The Paladin-Elect was dressed in a tight fitting homespun that had been dyed a deep red. Highlights in her hair caught the flickering light from the central fire. Her soft brown eyes smiled at the young soldier. She hadn't had much experience with men but knew this one was hers for the asking.

"If you're from the Barony of Net, what are you doing across the border in Eastern Province? Couldn't you get in trouble?"

"Don' wurry, pretty one," the man replied. "The border iz only a few miles away. Me and the guys always come here, to ... you know!"

He leered at her and rested a large hand on her leg.

"Still," Trissa continued, "you take quite a risk. What if your commander found out you were here and not at your post? Wouldn't you get in terrible trouble?"

"He certainly would, my dear. He'd probably be cashiered for desertion and jailed. That is, if he were caught. Right, my lad?"

The guardsman looked up to see a large blond man with a huge mustache peering down at him. The man was holding a tankard in one hand and a pail of ale in the other.

"Mind if I join you young people?" asked Luthor. He somehow produced a chair and sat down between Trissa and the young man before either could say yea or nay.

"Help yourself lad," Luthor said pouring ale into the guardsman's near empty cup.

"This is my friend, Luthor, of whom I spoke," Trissa explained to her perplexed suitor.

Before the soldier could gather his thoughts Luthor launched in to his jovial, hearty, back-slapping, what-a-fine-fellow-you-are routine. A few bawdy comments from the older man followed by a joke made at the expense of tax collectors and priests relaxed the young soldier. His eyes drifted occasionally to Trissa, now seated across the table from him, but each time Luthor would distract him with another ribaldry and pour more ale into his cup.

Soon Luthor and the young soldier were talking war and strategy. Wanting to impress both the seasoned warrior who was so kind as to buy him ale and the tempting girl who sat forward listening to his every word, resting her breasts on the table and pushing them forward for his viewing pleasure, the young man talked freely and eagerly about his duties for the Baron of Net. It wasn't long before Baron Thalweg knew the disposition of Morden's troops along the border.

In the crowded and smoky common room of the Green Goblin Inn, three sets of eyes watched what was taking place at Luthor's table. A veteran soldier, a sergeant from Net, had noticed his young soldier talking with the pretty girl. It was the sergeant's responsibility to see that the youngsters didn't get in too much trouble on their cross-border sprees. Wine and wenching were acceptable, but too much talk was discouraged, and after the large blond man had joined the duo there had been far too much talk. The sergeant passed by the table and overheard talk of military matters and one of the big man's jokes, something about a cat, a canary and a cock. The joke was familiar as was the big mustachioed man. Had he seen him before? The grizzled soldier returned to his table and sat staring at the trio, recalling old battles, old jokes and old acquaintances. He found the punch line first. He'd heard it during a campaign in the Western hinterlands nine years ago. He'd been a mercenary and had knocked about the Realms a fair bit before settling down in Central Province, in what was now called the Kingdom of the Baronies. The joke had been told to him on a cold and stormy night by the baron who had led the expedition. His way of cheering the men. Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent. The sergeant smiled. The posted rate of reward for the capture of a rival baron by a non-commissioned officer during a Succession War was one-tenth the ransom! If he could catch Thalweg and turn him over to his own baron, then his retirement could begin tomorrow!

The sergeant spoke quietly to his two companions, a corporal and newly enlisted man, both from his own unit. The men looked at the trio at the far table and back to the veteran. More discussion followed. After another quick look at the happy trio the soldiers smiled at each other and hurriedly finished their drinks. The corporal and the young soldier rose from their table, and headed for the door. They were to roundup whatever of Net's men-at-arms they could find in town and return to the inn.

The second set of eyes that watched the baron's table belonged to Soranyll. The mage sat near the door, alone, drinking his wood-milk. A minor enchantment kept prying eyes from looking too closely at him. It was only by chance that he noticed the sergeant walking through the crowded room. His purposeful circuit about the baron's table and the animated discussion with his fellow soldiers afterwards worried the elf. Soranyll knew what Trissa and the baron were up to and he was determined to give them as much time as possible to extract the information they needed from their foolish young prey. The many looks cast Thalweg's way bode no good. What were the two soldiers up to? Where were they going? The elf left the inn a few breaths after the two soldiers with the aim of following them and learning of their intentions.

The third set of eyes watched the baron, the three soldiers, and the elf, from the vantage point of the shadows that concealed the landing of the upper hall. The third watcher observed the two soldiers leave the inn, trailed by the elf. They also noted the sergeant rise from his seat seconds after the elf had exited the room.

The veteran stood staring at the door through which a tall, gloomy looking fellow had followed his two men. For half a minute the soldier was in obvious distress about what to do. Quickly downing his drink, the soldier from Net left the common room and exited the inn by the same door used by his compatriots and the elf.

As soon as the veteran soldier had left the inn, the watcher descended the stairs, turned down a hall and quickly departed the inn by a side door. His quarry was some fifty yards to the north, walking fast down an alley. Torlin smiled. This could be fun he thought, and set off after the soldier.

The Green Goblin Inn was located in that part of Harvest consisting mostly of a maze of warehouses and rickety tenements. Lanterns infrequently hung from building eaves' and torches lit the intersections of only some streets. Torlin kept to the shadows and moved as quietly as possible, taking care to see that he himself was not followed. His prey was moving fast. Down one alley, a turn to the right, up another narrow lane and a quick turn left. It was obvious that the soldier had a particular destination in mind and was trying to get there in a hurry.

Torlin crouched breathless in a doorway and rested for a moment. He cautiously peered around the doorway. His new friend was nowhere in sight. Damn! Torlin moved up the dark alley in the direction which the soldier had been going. He'd used so few of his old skills these last years the ex-thief wasn't sure if he should trust himself.

A hundred yards farther and he heard voices. They echoed strangely in the narrow lane seeming to come from all directions. Ahead and to the right? Torlin reached a corner, crouched low and looked around it. Thirty strides away at a T-shaped intersection lit by two torches three soldiers surrounded a familiar looking hooded figure. All four had swords drawn, but from where Soranyll had got a sword Torlin could not guess. He was certain the mage had left the inn with only his staff. And how had the soldiers cornered the elf?

The ex-thief couldn't clearly make out the words being spoken but from the way the men stood and their curt manner, it was apparent to him that the swords were about to be put to use. Three to one. A tough fight. Against any one or even two humans, Torlin would have bet on an elf. But Soranyll was a mage, not a warrior, and he faced three trained fighting men. The wise money would go against the elf. Torlin cocked his cross-bow.

The elf waited silently, sword in his right hand, the hem of his cloak clutched in his left. The taunts from the Sergeant continued. How could he have been trapped so easily? Cursed human cities! If these were the forests of home or even human infested woods this would never have happened. The straight laneways and sameness of each street had confused him. The stink of a human town added to that confusion. He had almost run into the pair he was tailing when a shout from behind him had alerted his prey. The three soldiers had neatly cornered him. He'd had no time to prepare a spell. It was obvious from the leader's questions that he was recognized from the inn. His refusal to answer was only making the men angry. He waited for the attack, which would start from the right, proffered by the youngest and least experienced of the three.

The young soldier shifted his footing in preparation for rushing the hooded man. But before he could move his opponent's sword became a metallic blur arcing towards his throat. Off balance, his own weapon jumped up to parry the blow and met only air. The feint had drawn away his guard and in an instant the riposte had left him with a deep wound in his left arm.

As the elf lunged at the young soldier, the sergeant and corporal rushed forward, swords stabbing at their hooded foe. Soranyll's cloak billowed outwards, unfolding over the heads of his attackers. As his sword pierced the arm of the young soldier he shifted back and to his left. A quick twist and a parry to deflect the Sergeant's weapon was followed by a slash at the Corporal who had aborted his attack when the cloak had opened up before him, hiding his opponent from view. All three attackers pulled back and looked at their opponent with surprise. Soranyll's hood had fallen back and in the combined light of the moon and a couple of feeble torches his elven features could be discerned.

The elf had drawn first blood. Torlin slipped a quarrel into place and leaned out further into the street.

"An elf? Damn Sprite! Yer fancy tricks will get you nothing. Ya had yer chance to give up. Yer dead now," stated the Sergeant.

Elvish fighting techniques were not used much by non-elves, but they were widely respected. The fair folk could not help but to incorporate their own philosophies and love of expression in to fighting, as they did in all areas of their lives. Sword-play became a dance, an intricate weave of graceful movement, poise, art and deadly skill. The two veterans immediately changed tactics. Gone were the taunts and bravado of a moment earlier. There were defenses for elvish sword work and the two schooled fighters of many a campaign had learned most of them. The next attacks were simultaneous fleches by the sergeant and corporal. The novice soldier followed quickly with a rush of his own.

The elf met them with a sword and dagger move learned from a Drow a half century ago. He turned two of the attacks but one blade slipped past his defense, the edge of a sword grazing his ribs on the left side. Seeing him misstep the trio moved closer to follow up on their advantage. Soranyll grimaced in pain but completed the Drow "lure-offense". In a swirling dance of blades, cloak, foot and hand the elf drove his attackers back inflicting two wounds on the Corporal and disarming the Sergeant. He did not continue with the counter-attack but stopped to rest. If he could get the space of a few breaths to concentrate on a spell, this would be soon over.

Torlin admired the elf's skill. Two of his opponents were wounded and one disarmed, left to attack with only a knife. The Sergeant was too well trained a fighter to turn his back to retrieve his sword. That would present too tempting a target and would also leave his companions to face the elf. Torlin readjusted his mental wager to slightly favor the elf when a yell sounded from one of the alleys.

The shouted challenge was answered by the corporal. A town guardsman, came into Soranyll's view! If his enemies waited for the reinforcement then he might yet have time to cast a spell. He started to focus his mind on that task when the two veterans moved towards him. He lost the half-formed spell and turned his thoughts back to the mundane. The opportunity had passed. It would soon be four blades against him.

Blades clashed, men cursed and an elven war cry echoed off the buildings. Soranyll fought desperately to strike down at least one of his foes before the fourth man entered the fray. Knives and swords struck at him from all sides. The sergeant leaped in with his knife and slashed low. The elf was cut on his leg. A blow to his back sent him stumbling towards the corporal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the young wounded soldier, teeth bared leap towards him. Thrust, parry, riposte. Foot-work, it was all foot-work! Keep moving! A scream sounded behind him. No time to look. Lunge! The sergeant dropped to his knees, hands clasped over the elf's sword, mortally wounded by Soranyll's last thrust. But the brave soldier of Net fought to the last. He reached out and grasped Soranyll's sword tightly in his hands depriving the elf of its use. With his foe's sword caught in the sergeant's death grip the badly wounded corporal moved in to strike at the elf. Over the dying Sergeant's shoulder Soranyll could see the fourth man charging towards him, only yards away.

Something buzzed past Soranyll's head, like a large angry bee. The guardsman grunted and lurched to a stop. He dropped to his knees behind the sergeant's body, a crossbow quarrel sticking out of his chest. His eyes glazed over and he died as he fell face forward onto the filthy alley. The elf tore his sword from the sergeant's body, turned and thrust hard at the last man, breaking through the corporal's guard. That man was dead seconds later. The elf turned to see the young soldier lying behind him, a quarrel sticking out of his back. The elf peered into the darkness trying to discern the location and identity of his unknown savior. Thirty yards away he made out a cloaked and hooded figure approaching him.

The elven mage raised eyebrows in honest surprise.

"Well met, Torlin."

"Damn your elvish eyes. You can see me?"

"My people have excellent vision, thief."

"Ex-thief. Why didn't you just cast one of your magical charms and turn them into rats?" queried Torlin.

"I didn't have time. Cast improperly and I could have had man-sized, sword wielding rats to fight. Magic should never be hurried."

Torlin looked over the mayhem. He noticed that Soranyll was leaning against his staff. He couldn't see the mage's sword anywhere. Blood covered the elf, but Torlin was certain most of it was human blood.

"Can you make it back to the inn?" he asked.

Soranyll nodded.

Torlin knelt over the bodies, quickly searching. After an evening of drinking the soldier's purses were light. He removed a ring from the Sergeant's body and an earring from the guardsman.

"You did say 'ex-thief', or are you now also a ghoul?"

Torlin turned to the elf, an angry retort on his lips. He caught himself before offering a choice Dwarvish insult.

"It will look like robbery. The disappearance of their coin will suggest a mugging gone badly. Or an altercation between Net's soldiers and the Harvest town guards. We should be several miles away by the time things are sorted out."

"We were going to cross the border tomorrow night at Grogan's Ford. We'll have to leave immediately. I will retrieve Baron Thalweg and Lady Lutrissa from the 'Green Goblin'. Hopefully they have had time to learn something of Baron of Net's troop deployments."

"Soranyll. I expected you all to be halfway through Net by now. Why the delay?" asked Torlin.

"Apparently, we were waiting for you," was the elf's cryptic reply.

Torlin shook his head and accompanied the elf back to the inn.

"I think it best if I scout ahead. We can meet in the Barony of Net, a few miles upstream of the ford," suggested the thief.

Torlin left Soranyll at the inn's back door and went into the stable to saddle his mount. He rode out of town and headed to the ford some two miles west of Harvest. Along the way, he encountered two mounted patrols. Fortunately, the men were riding fast and loud. He avoided them easily and crossed the Purple River without incident. Further south the bridge leading to Central Province and the Barony of Net glowed with torch light. He could make out movement and hear the occasional challenge of the soldiers manning the bridge guard post.

Climbing the west bank of the river he entered a small clearing and come upon a sentry slumped over a shuttered lantern, sound asleep. Torlin quietly passed by the less than conscientious soldier, his cross-bow at the ready. Leaving the napping sentry, Torlin turned north and followed the trail for almost three miles where it ended at what looked like a trapper's cabin. Dawn was just touching the eastern sky.

Leaving his mount tethered to a nearby tree, Torlin entered the structure. The cabin, which was little more than a shack, had one shuttered window in the wall opposite the door. A man-sized hole in the roof had let in rain and raccoons. The ex-thief chased the animals out and flopped down into the driest corner. The last few days on the road had been tiring. It had been several years since he had last ridden so far and hard. No sound entered the shack except for the early morning twittering of sparrows and a few warblers. He was asleep within a minute.

A whinny from his horse awoke him an hour later. He lay still and listened to what the world had to tell him. The birds still sang and a morning breeze stirred the surrounding trees. Under the forest sounds he could make out the clink of armor and the nickering of other horses coming from up the trail. Peering through a chink in the wall he saw three mounted figures approaching from the south. There was no mistaking the form of Luthor Thalweg, or the voice of the tyro-paladin raised in complaint and question.

"But Soranyll! Why are you being so mysterious? Tell us what happened. Who are we to meet? I knew my Scarlett Mistress would send us aid. She has never failed to answer my prayers. You should really let me look at that wound."

The three riders slowed as they approached the shack and came to a stop twenty feet from the door. Torlin watched Luthor's eyes dart to and fro scanning the terrain for possible dangers, assessing, calculating angles of attack. The young paladin's gaze shifted from Soranyll to Torlin's horse to the door of the shack and back to Soranyll. The hood of the elf's riding cloak covered his head, leaving his face in shadow.

Torlin rose, straightened his own cloak, opened the door and stepped out into the early morning light and spoke.

"If I am the answer to your prayers Paladin, then either you're doing it wrong or your goddess obviously thinks little of the difficulty of your quest."

Luthor's face lit up, a smile cracking open under his huge mustache.

"Well met, Torlin! Tanii was right. It would appear that I am a poor judge of old friends."

The paladin looked the ex-thief up and down, shaking her head. She looked past him, wondering, hoping, there were others behind him, hiding in the shack. Reliable colleagues of Luthor's, ex-adventurers, friends. But there was no one else. Only the drunkard thief.

"Is this a joke?" she demanded. "She couldn't...wouldn't..."

The baron dismounted and walked up to Torlin. He held out his hand.

"Forgive me old friend?"

Torlin let a wry smile cross his lips. He drew the dagger from his belt, knelt before Luthor and held the weapon up to him.

"Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent," intoned Torlin. "Accept my blade and I will serve you as my liege lord."

Luthor's eyebrows arched high on his forehead.

"Are you serious, Torlin?"

"Very," replied the kneeling man, softly.

Luthor laid his gloved hand on the blade before him.

"I, Luthor Thalweg Baron of Crescent, before these witnesses, accept your blade, and your life, into my service."

As he finished the response, he pulled the dagger out of Torlin's hand, held it a moment over the man's head then reversed the blade and returned it to his old friend. Torlin took the dagger, rose from the ground and sheathed the weapon.

"That wasn't very nice," he stated in a flat tone, glaring at his baron.

"What? The bit about accepting 'your life'? If you disagreed you shouldn't have released your blade. Since you did, I assumed you agreed, and since you agreed I also assume things are bad for you. Is it Guild business?"

"Yes," stated the ex-thief after a brief hesitation.

"Damn you! What have you got me into this time? Well, I need you and you need me, so that's that. Going to tell me about it?"

"Later," said Torlin. "Right now, we need to get as far as possible, as quickly as possible, from Harvest and Vintesse."

"Agreed. Once out of this valley we'll be on the Central Plain. Using Morden's roads we should be across the Barony of Net in a few days and out of Central Province in less than a week."

"You're not serious, Luthor?" exclaimed Trissa. "You'd accept the service of this sot? This little thief is not the help we want or need. We missed something back in Harvest. She wouldn't... It cannot be!"

"Can, is, and will be," Luthor replied. "I never knew your goddess to have such a good sense of humor. I'll build her a chapel when all of this is finished."

The paladin started to protest again when Soranyll interceded. "Theological arguments can be saved for later," stated the elf. "We must get moving. We have less than five weeks before the conjunction."

All argument stopped. Soranyll held out his hand to the paladin. She grimaced, pulled a coin from her belt and thrust it into his outstretched hand. The elf smiled, dismounted and led his horse along the overgrown trail, heading west. Luthor and Torlin took the reins of their mounts and followed. The Paladin-Elect, shaking her head and quietly yet vigorously mouthing words not usually contained in prayers, brought up the rear.


	6. 6 Secrets

**Demon Haunt**

**Chapter 6 Secrets**

**T**he Harbinger's eyes were vacant, the irises opaque. She stared into the flickering lights within the crystal orb, her lips moving silently, her tattooed face blank. In her left hand an iron stylus made scratches on a wax tablet. As the lights in the orb faded, she swayed and crumpled to the floor. The three men watching made no attempt to catch her or ease her fall. One did not touch a Harbinger before, during or immediately after their trance.

The oldest of the three men pulled the tablet to the far side of the table and began reading. After several minutes spent de-cyphering the scrawled symbols, he looked up at his two companions and read them the message from the guild's agent in Eastern Province.

"Harlock's kidnappers were unsuccessful. The one the guild seeks now travels west with three allies. One of whom is the Baron of Crescent."

"Thank you, Sage. The Priestess?" asked the youngest member of the trio, pointing to the form on the floor.

The Sage responded. "Useless for a week at least. And we are still looking for another safe contact with the Sending Talent. I am surprised you found even one in Eastern Province, sir."

"Hmph. Take her back to her temple and make a donation to her Order. The usual amount. We may need her again."

The Sage nodded his understanding. He knelt beside the young woman on the floor, gently rousing her from her faint. She climbed unsteadily to her feet and with the Sage's assistance gathered her things and slowly shuffled from the room.

"This thief I am helping you track? Tell me more of him, Alzalath." The request from the young man sounded more like an order but Guild-Master Alzalath ignored the tone. He was used to the young baron's ways.

"Not yer typical gutter snipe. He wuz schooled in Jurann, in the old ways along wit' five er six others. Had airs about 'im. All of 'em did. I couldn't stomach 'em, not me. Thievin' was a bloody 'art' to 'em, not business like it should a bin."

"The thief?" inquired Baron Splorr of his guest a second time. He had been told that trying to keep Alzalath on track during a conversation took some doing. The man used any excuse to start listing his grievances about all and sundry. How such a petty, ignorant, ill-tempered man ever rose to such power was a mystery, but the baron supposed it was through a combination of cruel practicality, assassination and bribery. Attributes he could appreciate.

"Torlin. Rumor is he and few others stole the gem, the Rose, one of the Guild's great treasures. That stunt earned 'em Master Thief standing. Said they returned it to the Old Man the night of my take-over. Tortured a few of 'em to make sure. One of 'em died on the rack, the other two we busted up bad but they all sung the same tune. Only the one who died admitted to anything and he said he worked alone. T'others had nothin' to do with it. Wuz the guy who croaked that did it! They said. We never found the stone. The Old Man took iz own life before my boys could get to 'im. Ten years goes by and we starts hearin' the stories, rumors 'n such, about what the Rose really wuz. That it has a Power. Soon every damn thing that goes wrong gets the Guild boys 'n girls rollin' their eyes and talking about how thems 'fated things' and the Guild will fall. I tries puttin' a stop to that talk but it still goes on. So, I look up the two boyos that we thoughts first swiped it. Turns out one of 'em is dead from pox. The other, this Torlin, goes lost for a few years turnin' up in Eastern Province. So, we keeps an eye on 'im real good but his minder, Harlock, gets a burr up his arse about it all. Turns out he wuz right. Torlin turned a few of our spies. He's got somethin' to hide, so we decided to bring 'im in. Seems my 'persuader' missed somethin' the first time. If what yur Harbinger writes is true then the old boyo has a few skills left and still has 'is smarts. He's bought protection from this Baron of Crescent."

"Luthor Thalweg is a Western Province baron", stated the Baron of Spike. "A drinker, a womanizer, and reportedly one of the finest mercenaries The Baronies has ever seen. He is Duke Storm's ablest commander. He settled some western lands about a decade past. His revenues come from the sale of hides, ale and metals mined from the Orc Alps."

"So Torlin joins up with 'im and runs west to Crescent?" offered Alzalath.

"Not quite. Twenty years ago, this thief of yours traveled with Thalweg. They spent several years together in the far south and in the west across the Great Dry before arriving in The Baronies. They parted soon afterwards. I have tracked down many stories. Seems that a venture in the north went badly. Their little band was killed or broke up. Thalweg then settled a western barony and Torlin joined your guild."

"Two old friends meet in little Vintesse? Nice coincidence", said Alzalath. "How do ye know so much of this mercenary baron?"

Splorr smiled. "I like to collect information on anything happening in Capitol that could... harm, my interests. One of my spies working in a competitor's household overheard a conversation involving Thalweg. Odd how a Western baron risks travels through South Province just as war is about to break out. West and South have seldom been allies, so it was not safe to be here. Yet with war stirring this baron does not return home to see to his defenses but rides to Eastern Province. Why? Just to see an old friend?" Splorr continued, "And then your agents and mine, working separately, start bumping into each other as they chase information about persons of interest in Eastern Province. I do not believe in coincidence. That is why I suggested this meeting and, as a show of good faith, brought along some of my resources to share with you."

"An' a fancy way it were too, to get information using a priestess like that. Useful. Quick. A might draining on th' lass, but no more so than what my tame wizards go thru doin' similar stuff", replied Alzalath.

"About your wizards?" asked the baron. "Are they still... sane?"

"Hah, har!" laughed Alzalath. "Sane enough. At least fer now. They had good schoolin' and I keeps an eye on 'em. Magic is a powerful tool but it can drive some mad. Seen it. Not pretty."

"Or safe," responded the baron.

"I don't keep 'em near me fer too long at a time," retorted Alzalath.

"Is it agreed? We work together? You want your thief, and I, the Baron Thalweg. As long as they are together our interests are the same," stated Splorr.

"Aye. Fer now we're mates," replied the man. "My thief seems to want to run. I intends to catch 'im and return him to Capitol. Whats you want done with yer baron?"

"Bring him along to Capitol as well," replied Splorr. "He and I can have a little chat. At the very least his capture will slow Wests' entry in to the war and solidify my position in the South."

The baron rang a small bell that brought a servant scurrying into the room gesturing to Alzalath that he should follow him. This indicated that the meeting was over. Alzalath was used to being dismissed like this by his betters. He found the airs of the Southern barons more amusing than insulting, so tolerated them. As he bowed to the baron and turned to go, Splorr made a comment.

"It is said that you have spies throughout the Baronies, even in my household."

Alzalath grinned at the young baron. "As do yuz, in me guild."

Splorr inclined his head towards the assassin, but whether this was an agreement was unclear.

"There may be another way to fathom what Thalweg seeks so far for his home," stated the young baron. "Someone in his barony may know."

"Yuz wan me to send a few boyos to Crescent to ask 'round?"

"Do you have people near or in Crescent?"

"Close enough as makes no never mind," replied Alzalath.

"The Baroness... Lady Tanii, I believe? She would know the reasons behind her husband's journey. Can your men extract this information?"

"Sure, no problem. They's a little rough, but I can git what ye wont."

The baron nodded in dismissal. As the Alzalath approached the door, now held open by the servant, the Baron made a final comment.

"Oh, if you cannot capture Thalweg, then kill him."

"My pleasure," responded the leader of the Guild as he exited the room.

* * *

Kerrogan Splorr, Baron of Spike watched the broad back of the Guild Master as he passed through the doorway and down the hall that connected the audience chamber to the side door of his estate. A footman opened that door for the baron's guest and the Guild Master exited into the night. Splorr waited the space of several breaths then walked across the chamber to the far side where he opened a small door, half hidden in the shadows.

The Sage walked into the room and answered his master's unasked questions. "She is resting upstairs. She will need at least two days of rest before we try another Sending."

Splorr nodded. "Thank you, old friend."

"This Baron of Crescent. I've not heard of him before. Is he really a concern, m'lord?"

"I prefer not to take chances," replied the Baron of Spike. "Old Theo Storm will make a play for the crown and Thalweg is one of his chief allies. He is up to something and this thief is obviously involved. Bad luck that my business and Guild business should tie together. I do not mind using Alzalath's assassins as tools but I do not want the man as a partner. Was he Protected?"

"Yes," answered the Sage. "A strong aura was around him. Nothing I could not dismantle. His wizards are good but from what I have gathered not formidable in defensive magics. Still, he is dangerous with them as allies. And no, my Lord. I do not yet know their identities."

Splorr let his unasked but now answered question die in his throat. Sometimes it was as if the Sage knew exactly what was in his mind. He would never have admitted it to anyone but that trait un-nerved him more than any of the magics he had seen practiced by the man.

"What do we know of the baron's companions?"

"Not much, sir. The rider who entered Capitol with him appears to be a ranger. The young knight who met him at the city gates has not been identified. His shield and armour bore no image. Perhaps a sell-sword?"

"Several days spent in Capitol and Thalweg never left his hosts' home? Then suddenly packed and back on the road to the East. A few days in Eastern Province and then they turn northwest. It would have been quicker to head north from Capitol through Central Province. The detour was for only one reason. To recruit his old friend."

The baron often thought out loud and the Sage knew better then to interrupt his musings. Listening to this exercise grew tedious at times but often enough the young baron's vocal self-questioning turned up a small gem of information or insight that no other retainer, friend or ally had discovered.

"Why not go straight to Eastern Province? Why come to Capitol to spend time at a merchant's house? A silk-trader. Not much of a market for fine cloth in Western Province. Who were his visitors? Our informant said he only saw representatives from a few temples. What is near the merchant's quarter? The Central Market. That new gaming house? The Royal Library. The Baths. The King's Park..."

The baron and Sage each looked up from their reflections. "The Library!"

The Sage closed his eyes and mumbled softly to himself. The words spoken were in an ancient tongue, older even than Elvish. As the spell was completed his body stiffened and froze in place. Splorr had seen and heard this spell used before. He knew that the Sage had sent what he called his Third Eye, a part of himself, out into the ether. While standing here in Splorr's estate the Sage could be viewing happenings taking place many miles away elsewhere in Capitol. Baron Splorr knew from experience that it would be several minutes or even an hour before the Sage was himself again and aware of his surroundings. The baron placed a chair immediately behind the older man and stood ready to lower him onto it once the spell ended. These endeavors always took a great deal of energy from the Sage. Anyone familiar with Baron Splorr would have been surprised, even shocked, at the kind act. Kindness and concern for retainers was not a trait associated with any member of the Splorr family.

There was no clock in the room but Splorr guessed that a quarter hour had passed when he noticed the Sage's eye lids begin to flicker. He grabbed the old man's arms and helped lower him to the chair. A sharp intake of breath and the Sage jerked as if woken from a sound sleep by a rough hand. His eyes had a wild gleam to them and he looked around quickly, even fearfully, before his senses returned. He looked up at his baron and smiled, weakly nodding his head in thanks.

Splorr poured wine from the bottle on the table and passed a glass to the wizard. After a few gulps the Sage was again himself and told the baron what he had found.

"The merchant house has a garden in the back that has sheltered access to an alleyway. The alley opens onto the streets directly across from a side door of the Library. No one leaving the house by that route would be seen. Your informant may have seen Baron Thalweg leave his rooms to spend the day in the garden and not be aware that he had left the house. The baron could have returned the same way."

The Baron of Spike walked to the table and poured himself more wine. He mumbled softly to himself. After a sip of the red grape he turned to the Sage with an order.

"Dispatch one of your acolytes to the library. See what they can turn up regarding the Baron of Crescent and his visits, if there were any. Use gold to loosen a few tongues. This may be nothing but Thalweg's journey does not sit well with me. Most any other baron and I'd dismiss it, but he and Storm are close. As for Alzalath's problem... find out more about this 'Rose' and the thieves who took it. We may be allies but he, like me, is holding something back."

The Sage nodded, bowed and withdrew from the room leaving the young baron speaking softly to himself, eyes gazing into the distance, now lost in thought.

The older man walked down a long hall to the suite of rooms he held at the far end of the Splorr's summer retreat. Most of the retainers and furniture were gone, removed to the winter residence. Entering his drawing room, he found one of his acolytes reviewing the day's lesson.

"Patrel, leave that. I have a task for you that requires some intelligence. Sadly, you lack much in that area but I am forced to use you as Borrel is in the middle of some delicate incantation work for me. Now, listen closely. This matter is a direct request of our Lord so there is no room for error or excuses!"

Patrel nodded quickly and rolled up his scrolls and pens, listening attentively to his master. Carrying out a favor for the Baron, if done well, would earn him a handsome reward. An error could mean his life.

* * *

Guild-Master Alzalath scowled at the two men standing before him. But as Alzalath habitually scowled at everyone it might not mean anything in particular. The two Guildsmen knew their master's ways and patiently waited.

The meeting room was one of many rooms in the warren below the streets of Capitol where Guild business was conducted away from the eyes and ears of honest folk. Braziers, candles and lanterns suspended from ceiling hooks provided light and some measure of warmth to the chill stone-walled room. Alzalath sat in a large comfortable chair in the center of the room. No other chairs were present. A few tables along the side walls held various articles such as inks, parchment, paper and pens, knives, a collection of dice and cards. A tray and some empty wine goblets sat on a stool. At the far end of the room two large men dressed head to toe in black, masked and carrying lochabers, stood guard at the closed wooden double doors. Two more men, also in dark leather and masked but carrying drawn swords, stood on either side and slightly behind the Guild-Master. Standing beside Alzalath was an old man dressed in tattered robes, his hair stained yellow with age, his face heavily lined. Dim, watery gray eyes stared intently at the two younger men who stood before the Guild-Master.

"I heard yur reports. Not much impressed lads. No not much impressed at all, I must say," growled the Guild-Master. Criticism of subordinates was Alzalath's usual opening in any meeting. The two thieves made no comment but stood silently looking down at the ground before their feet.

"I gathered the same information from a quick chat with a Southern Lord the other day. All yuz done is wrapped up the same words and barfed 'em back to me. I want new bits. Some gossip, a rumor I'ven't already heard a hundred times. If you can't do better than this, yuz may not have a future in the Guild."

The two men looked quickly at one another, then at Alzalath and back down at the ground. Now they were nervous. Their only life was the Guild and they knew that no one retired or walked away from the Guild anymore. Many a man and woman, good guild brothers and sisters, had walked into this very room to face Alzalath's displeasure. Few walked out of the room on two good legs.

The old man leaned forward and whispered into the Guild-Master's ear.

Alzalath looked annoyed and shook his head. A moment of silence passed. Alzalath stared hard at the two men before him. He snapped the fingers of his left hand and before either of the two thieves could react the swordsmen to the Guild-Master's left had swung his blade to deadly effect. The younger thief lay sprawled on the ground, his life ebbing from a gaping wound in his throat.

The other thief stepped back, eyes locked on his friend who lay drowning in his own blood.

"Try agin' lad, and don't return without something better. Now, get outta my sight!"

With that curt dismissal the remaining thief scurried from the meeting room and made his way to the streets of Capitol to continue his work on behalf of the Guild-Master. Alzalath turned to his bodyguards.

"Leave us!" he ordered. The assassin cast a quick glance at the old man who was staring at the body on the floor before them.

"Didn't matter which one, did it?"

The old man shook his head.

"Your price is high".

The old man did not take his eyes off the dead man as he replied, "The information you want is difficult to obtain. And my spells require... fresh materials."

Alzalath muttered "Well this had better get me what I need. I can't have this Southern Baron getting ahead of me. Won't do, won't do at all!"

"Why not simply kill him, as you have so many others who stood in your way?"

Alzalath laughed, a short barking laugh. "My work ain't as easy as you seem to think, old one! This Splorr is well protected. He has spies in every major house in the Southern Baronies. And not a few elsewhere too, including my own guild. And from I have learned from my own spies that Sage o' his is some fancy sorcerer too. Splorr's protected good."

"Magus," remarked the old man.

"Wuz-us?" asked the Guild-Master.

The old man repeated the term. "Magus. The one called 'the Sage' is a wizard, certainly no sorcerer."

"I don't see the difference," replied Alzalath. "He weaves spells like you, studies his books like you and the two wizards on my hire. Don't see the difference. And I don't care, as long as you're the better mage."

The old man shook his head. He'd almost given up trying to teach Alzalath about any of the subtleties of magic that differentiated the wizard from the sorcerer.

"Who is the better thief?" asked the old man. "The cut-purse or the cat-burglar?"

"Question makes no sense," replied Alzalath. "A pickpocket or cut-purse do different work than does a 'roofman' or cat. But they both steal."

"Exactly," replied the old man. "Different tools, different skills. But both are thieves. It is the same with the Sage and me."

"Alright then. But if yuz was to, yuz could take 'im?"

The old man laughed. Or Alzalath assumed the dry rasping sound escaping from the sorcerer's chest was a laugh.

"Oh, yes. Quite easily. But I would prefer not to have my presence known, so let's not let it come to that?"

Alzalath cast a glance at the bent old man beside him. But he did not meet the cold, misted orbs of the sorcerer. Once had been enough for the assassin. The Guild-Master stood, stretched and walked to the large doors at the end of the chamber. He indicated the corpse with toss of his head.

"Yuz'll take care o' that?"

"Oh, yes," replied the old man, a tone of eagerness creeping into his words.

Alzalath left the room, closing the door behind him. There was not much that disturbed him, but dealing with this particular sorcerer or mage or whatever he called himself, unsettled the large man. Now alone in the meeting room, the old man knelt over the dead thief and whispered strange words into the corpse's ear. He stepped back, drawing a wand from beneath his robes and continued his chant. The body at his feet twitched. A shudder ran through it. Slowly and awkwardly the dead thief rose to his feet.

"Come," ordered the necromancer.

The now undead thief, with blood-drenched clothing, gaping throat wound and dead eyes, followed his new master through a small doorway at the back of the room.


	7. 7 Soldiers of Net

**Demon Haunt**

**Chapter 7 Soldiers of Net**

"**M**ore troops than I'd figured on," complained Thalweg, as he watched several Net troopers lounging around a tent that had been set up as a checkpoint just west of the border between the Barony of Net and Eastern Province.

The four riders were atop a small hill looking down at the checkpoint. The dirt road they had been following out of Eastern Province met a few more dirt tracks at the border. The rutted roads converged and continued westward into Net, but as a wide, well maintained stone roadway.

"We could wait until night and slip past them," suggested Torlin.

"Or, ride farther north and find another road? One less well guarded?" reasoned the elf.

The Baron Thalweg shook his head. "No. The lands between East and Net becomes rougher country up north. It will slow us down. We need to use Net's fine roads to make up time."

"It will not be easy to cross undetected, Luthor. Even though rough, the country is open land. And it is still hours until dusk. Troops from Harvest may well be close behind us," cautioned the Paladin-Elect.

"True. We will need a convincing story to enter Net during a Succession War... 'The Herald'," asked Thalweg of the thief?

"Not with this motley group," replied Torlin. "Maybe, 'The Tax-Man'?"

"Too well known. There are bound to be a few veterans down there who have fallen for that scheme in the past."

"So, it is 'Sell-Swords' then," said Torlin.

"That one can go either way. But this early in a war, with no or little blood spilled and Net not yet declared, it could work."

Soranyll and Trissa sat quietly on their mounts looking first at Torlin then at Thalweg. The elf turned to the young paladin.

"Some type of ruse to talk our way past the guard post, no doubt."

"Like in a play," said the girl, brightening. "What is to be my role?"

The ex-thief scowled at her. "You are to say nothing, and try not to look quite so pretty. You attract too much attention. As for you," Torlin's scowl sought out the elf. "Try not to look so... elven."

* * *

The young Captain of the checkpoint was the first to notice the four riders approaching. They rode slowly to ensure that little dust was raised. As they drew closer, he could see that they were a well-armed and tough looking crew. By the time the riders drew up to the start of the stone road, his men were arrayed with helmets on, standing alert with spears crossed, blocking their path.

The group reined in a few paces from the guards. Thalweg scanned the men, taking stock of their numbers, armor, and the ease with which they held their weapons. He spoke the truth when he addressed the captain. "A fine looking squad, Captain. Fine indeed. But I would keep the taller men to the sides to make use of their longer reach... should anyone be foolish enough to try to run your line."

The Captain did not turn to survey his men; he knew which man was at what station. He took a long look at the four strangers before him. Returning his gaze to Thalweg he nodded and stated. "A good point, sir. You have a keen eye. Please state your business in Net."

"We completed a tour in the mines of Borsa – salamander hunting. Not fit work for soldiers, I'll tell you that. But even in Borsa we heard of the Succession War. So, we headed west to hire out to a worthy lord. None in Eastern Province, that's for certain! But of your master, the Baron of Net, we hear good things. We offer our blades at fair price. And if you do not hold with a bought blade then we ask for leave to pass through Net."

The Captain looked over the four horsemen again. Mercenaries more often found work in the south, but this year harvest was late throughout the Baronies and free-men were busy gathering crops. In Net it was no different. The Barony could not both levy soldiers and collect grain. So, with a war brewing, mercenaries were in demand.

"You will find my baron's terms fair," answered the Captain. "Turn south at the third crossing and you will come to the Baron's camp. There you will be examined and if you pass you will find a place in Net's forces."

"That is grand," replied Thalweg. "Thank you, Captain."

"A moment," said the guard Captain, holding up his hand as the four started to move their horses down the road.

"Silas," he called out to one of his men.

A young, bleary-eyed soldier walked forward.

"Accompany these people to the main camp," ordered the Captain. "Maybe a long, dusty ride will help sober you up."

The young soldier turned and plodded back to the tent behind which a make-shift corral held several horses.

"No need for the escort, Captain," said Thalweg. "I am sure we can find our way."

"It is not so much for you, sir," replied the Captain, "as it is a punishment for Silas being drunk on duty."

Thalweg nodded his understanding but quietly cursed softly to himself. He had no wish to go south, much less to enter Net's main army camp.

It took Silas only a few moments to saddle his horse and the party, now numbering five, passed the soldiers, who had returned to lounging in the grass by the side of the road.

* * *

Silas rode up front leading the way to where Net's army encamped. Trissa rode beside him offering an occasional cheery word or commenting on the state of affairs in the Baronies. Silas's mood had improved much since leaving his Captain's presence. His companions were quiet with the exception of the chatty girl. He had three sisters and knew that girls could talk endlessly - frilly nonsense, mostly. But this one was interesting in that she knew something of the world and horses and war.

The scenery, typical of Net, grew more agricultural as they left the border area. The land consisted of rolling plains, small hillocks dotted with woods and near endless fields of grain. Much of Central Province looked this way but Net seemed to offer an even more pastoral and workman-like version of the central plains, reflecting, if anyone had asked Thalweg, his impression of its master, the Baron of Net.

Silas pointed ahead to a small hill that stood close to the road. "We can water the horses there", he told the riders.

Atop the small hill stood several trees, a well and horse trough. A welcome bit of shade for horses and men on a warm, sunny autumn day. Silas dismounted and walked to the well, which had a pump mounted over it. He started pumping the handle and soon the trough was filled with cool, clear water. Horses and men moved forward to partake.

A quick impression of danger flooded through Trissa - she turned suddenly to face her three companions. They had ranged themselves behind Silas. The Baron and elf each to one side with the thief in the middle and slightly forward. The latter's hand held a knife low and to his side, his eyes focused on Silas' back. In three steps he would be behind Silas and she knew that an instant later his knife would take the young guardsman's life.

"Luthor, my dear," she called out loudly, attracting the attention of all four men near the trough.

"Luthor," she spoke again, quickly. "Our escort informs me that this is a main road and is well-traveled."

Her three companions stopped and stared at her. Silas turned, looked at Luthor, then back at the girl. Trissa smiled brightly at them all saying nothing but looking intently at Luthor as if expecting a reply to her innocent comment. Silas turned back to the three men near him. Luthor was looking at Trissa as if he had only just noticed her, as if she had quietly and mysteriously appeared on the hillside next to them. The elf was staring hard up at the nearest tree while Torlin fumbled under his cloak for a water skin. He continued walking past Silas to the trough and commenced to fill the skin.

"Well-traveled, you say," replied Luthor. "Odd, as we have seen no other travelers."

"Oh, it is near mid-day, sir," answered Silas. "Most traffic coming and going from Net moves along our roads early and late in the day. You will see merchants and grain wagons in an hour or so."

"Ah. An hour or so." He looked meaningfully at the girl.

Trissa saw Torlin turn back towards the guardsman, knife again in hand.

"But..." she said. "Farmers! I am sure there are many farmers in the immediate area? Are there not?" She turned to the guardsman for an answer.

"Um. Oh. Aye," he replied. "No doubt. Well, a few. Maybe."

Torlin moved closer to Silas.

"How far from Net is the camp to which you are leading us?" She hurriedly asked Silas.

"Only a few miles," he answered. "It can be seen from Net's walls."

"It can be seen from Net's walls," she repeated loudly. "So only a few miles? Not far at all?" The young woman turned back to the Baron, a cross look on her face.

"Ah," said Luthor, "I see. Never mind." This last comment was directed to the thief, who slipped his knife back under his cloak.

Silas shook his head. An odd group, he thought to himself. He walked his horse to the cool of the shade trees and tended to its harness. His companions grouped together around the well and set about examining the fine pump with which many of Net's wells were fitted.

"Why?" hissed the Paladin-Elect of Torlin.

"I was only following my Lord's order," answered the thief.

Trissa turned to Luthor, who scowled at her, cursed under his breath and said, "We cannot be dragged miles and miles to the south. We must get out of Net as soon as possible. Any delay could be a disaster for us! That means heading west or north, not south."

"If you had spent just a few minutes talking to the young man you would have learned that Net's army camps only a few miles south of the city of Net! The Baron of Net is many miles away at a southern outpost. There is no need to slit his throat and dump him in a trough," she retorted angrily!

"Throats," said Torlin, "are for amateurs. Between the ribs, straight to the heart."

"You idiots!" She furiously glared at each in turn. "We need a pass. You get passes from senior officers. Or, if your little thief has any skill, you steal them from an officer! Officers and passes will both be found at the camp!"

She turned to go, turned back to the three and again hissed "Idiots! Why is it always blood first and thought second?" She shook herself and left the three men to tend to her own horse.

"Perhaps," said the elf, "we were too hasty?"

"Maybe," was Luthor's comment.

"I'd have buried him under a nice tree," Torlin said to the elf. "I'd never dump anyone in a trough. We do not need another body turning up."

"Oh, do tell that to the Paladin," said the elf with a sardonic grin.

* * *

An hour later Net's walls rose ahead of them and in one more hour they had turned to the south and entered onto a plain filled with tents, men and horses. Net's main army encampment. The camp had only been in existence a few days and much work was still needed to make it ready. The hustle, bustle and general confusion that arises with so many new recruits in one place kept officers busy and no one took much notice of four more riding in with an escort. Silas led them to a large yellow tent near the center of the camp where things were less chaotic and most of the soldiers moved with a sense of purpose.

Silas dismounted and tied his horse's lead to a pole.

"Follow me," was all he said and entered the large tent.

The four companions did as they were bid. The interior of the tent had a wooden floor and several areas were sectioned off by canvas walls hung from wooden beams. Slender pillars supported the beam and roof. Several men and two women, all in fine armor were gathered about a table near the center of the tent enjoying a late lunch. Silas approached, threw a salute at the group and directed his comments to a tall gray-haired man.

"South-Commander, four sell-swords seeking service, sir!"

The gray-haired man smiled at the alliterative announcement, turned and ran a quick eye over the four.

"Good, Corporal. Thank you. Have them report to the Arms-Master for gear and uniforms. I'll interview them later. Oh, and take this order to your captain. Eastern road, yes? Good. Take this order. Start patrols to the north and south. You are to take six new recruits back with you."

With that they were dismissed from the presence of the Commander of the Southern Roads. Silas led them back to their horses muttering under his breath. The young man was not pleased.

"A problem?" inquired Thalweg of the corporal.

Silas shook his head. "No. Expected. I need to return to the checkpoint with new recruits. I was hoping to have a night in camp before heading back."

The young corporal scratched his head. "Look, I really have to get going. The Arms-Master is stationed in the large blue tent near the west end of the camp. Report to him. He'll kit you out, see what you know, and after your interview with the Commander you will be assigned a post".

A sloppy salute was offered and Silas headed south to pick up his new charges, leaving the four companions standing outside the Commander's tent.

"We had better move along," said Luthor. "Officers cannot abide seeing a soldier doing nothing."

Thalweg led his horse at a slow but purposeful walk towards the west end of the camp. They came upon a common kitchen, rows of tables and benches near cooking fires. Awnings protected the seated soldiers from the warm autumn sun. Thalweg turned towards the mess, tied his horse to a nearby post and walked up to the fires. He grabbed a trencher board from a stack and held it out to the kitchen thrall tending the fire. The man filled the board from several pots. Thalweg walked a little further, seating himself at a table away from the other groups of eating men and women. Torlin and the elf had followed suite with Trissa scurrying to catch up.

"Might as well eat before we meet the Arms-Master," Thalweg said loudly to no one in particular. His three companions sat with him and all progressed to fill their stomachs.

"Not bad. Net's men eat well," commented Torlin.

"Indeed" replied Thalweg. "A powerful recruiting inducement", he said with a mouthful.

Swallowing, he turned at Torlin and asked, "Do you have it"?

Torlin nodded and showed a corner of folded parchment hid beneath his leather jerkin.

"What is that," asked Trissa?

Torlin smiled. "The young corporal's written orders for recruits to be stationed at the eastern checkpoint". "How...?" Trissa looked perplexed.

"When...?" She turned to Soranyll. "Did you see that?"

The elven mage smiled in Torlin's direction. A sincere smile for once. "Excellent. Never saw a thing."

"What good does that do us?" asked Trissa. "We need a pass but that could only take us back to the checkpoint."

"In its present from and wording, yes," replied Luthor. "But after Torlin has finished with it, it will take us west and north of Net. Here's the plan. Torlin will find a quiet space where he can work undisturbed. The two of you will act as lookouts. Look busy, intercept anyone headed his way. Stall them. I will visit the Arms-Master and see what I can pick up. Once the document is complete we head to the north gate. We need to move fast. The camp gates will be closed, pass or no pass, once the sun is down."

Thalweg headed west, leaving his horse with Sorynall. Torlin also handed his mount over to the mage.

"Keep them ready. Try to look busy."

Torlin looked around. He turned back to the mage. "I see no other elves in the camp. I am surprised you are not attracting some attention."

The elf smiled. "They do not see me as an elf, just another human". Torlin looked more closely at the mage. The elf looked as he had since the day they first met.

"I do not have the materials to make this document in to what Thalweg wants. I need to find some ink. And maybe some new parchment. The Paladin and I will be back shortly."

Soranyll took Lutrissa's horse and walked the four animals over to a hitching post away from the kitchen area and nearer some small sleeping tents where he tied them off and started fussing with the tack.

Torlin and Trissa walked briskly back the way they had come, soon arriving at the back of the Commander's large yellow tent. An unguarded, small rear doorway was closed by a flap of canvas. Torlin bent over and started examining the guys and stakes that supported the tent, working his way closer to the canvas door. Trissa appeared to be assisting him but was instead keeping watch on a group of soldiers that were walking between tents. They were soon out of sight.

"Now," she whispered.

With a flick of his knife the flap parted and they entered the rear of the Command tent. A small empty vestibule walled off by hanging canvas partitions was all they saw. Voices could be heard coming from the front of the tent. Torlin used his knife to cut a small slit in the partitions. To the left was a dimly lit area containing two cots and some clothing hanging over a small brazier. To the right was what appeared to be an office; a table with several pieces of parchment or vellum on it, two camp chairs and a few lanterns already lit cast a bright, if not cheery, light.

He nodded to Trissa and they walked out of the vestibule into a short corridor, defined by more hanging canvas partitions, the floor covered by rugs. The voices from the front of the tent grew louder but only the occasional word could be made out. The two slipped into what Torlin assumed was the Commanders' scribe's office and searched the table. Parchment, vellum, even paper, covered the table top, as well as a few small bottles of ink, several quills and some charcoal sticks. Sealing wax was also present but he could see no seal.

"This will take a few minutes. Let me know if anyone approaches."

The thief set to work. It would be faster to create a new document than to alter the old one. He chose a stained piece of vellum and quickly wrote out the orders that would grant them passage across the Barony of Net. He took more time with the signature, carefully comparing it to the one on Silas' orders. He spread some drying powder, a fine sand, over the document. It would be dry enough to roll in a moment. A voice called out from behind him.

"What are you doing there?" He had not heard anyone approach. He looked up but could only see Trissa standing in the doorway. She was staring down the short corridor towards the front of the tent. The voice was several yards away; the speaker hidden by canvas walls.

"Or... or... orders, sir." she stuttered.

"Orders? Whose? For what?" the tone was brusque. Business-like but not rude.

"Um, for the Arms-Master, sir. A... requisition?"

"Requisition? What? For the spears?"

The girl mutely nodded.

"I just sent that over. Damn but Master Walner is impatient. Well, go back to him and tell him that it was sent. Come, come. Out, out. Here, this way."

Torlin watched the Paladin-Elect walk away down the corridor towards the dis-embodied voice of a senior officer, and out of his view. It appeared that she was being escorted out of the command tent by the front entranceway. He turned back to his work. Several documents were on the desk before him. He perused them quickly learning little of interest. A heavy piece of vellum, beached white, caught his eye. The document appeared to be something about taxes. At the top of it was drawn a detailed copy of the royal seal – a stylized crown with three arches supporting a monde, set on an ornate oval shield. Wax seals were only used for important documents. Day to day issuances had a drawn copy of the seal on them. Lost in these thoughts, and owing to the thick rugs that covered the floors, Torlin failed to hear the scribe's approach.

* * *

Paladin-Elect Lutrissa Betha Cassender was escorted out of the command tent, and was once again pointed towards the Arms-Master's location. She walked briskly to the west, skirting troopers, horses and wagons, slipped between some large crates and circled back to the Command tent. No one was near the rear entrance. She quickly entered, and moments after she had exited, she was again standing in the entranceway to the scribe's office. Torlin was leaning over the body of a robed man and wiping off the blade of a long, thin dagger.

"Huh? What? What?" Trissa spat out the words in a sharp but hushed staccato. "I was gone a moment, a mere moment. What is this?" she hissed. "What is wrong with you?"

* * *

"You there! What are you doing in my office?"

Torlin turned slowly, casually, and looked up at the tall, angular, robed man glaring at him from the office entranceway.

"Ah, there you are," Torlin said, speaking in a firm but quiet voice. He had to quickly set the tone and volume of the discourse.

"I need this copied. Prepared for his signature. Immediately." Torlin's tone was officious and curt, as if he were addressing a subordinate. He held out a scroll he had picked up off the desk just before he had turned to make his reply.

The scribe had a cross look on his face, as would be expected if someone came across a stranger in one's private work space. No one should be back here but there were a lot of new people coming and going lately. He had had to direct others out of his tiny realm before today. The man before him held out a scroll and stepped forward demanding a signature.

The scribe reached for the scroll, his eyes flicking quickly to his desk and back to Torlin. Who can say what he saw? Something misaligned on his desk that indicated that someone, the man before him, had rifled through it? A look in the stranger's eye that spoke of danger, malevolence? Or was it just a feeling, prescience calling out that all was not as it should be?

For whatever reason the scribe was altered to a danger. His hand that had been reaching out to take the scroll from Torlin thrust forward and grabbed the thief by his shoulder. He half turned his head to the front of the tent taking his eyes off the intruder for a second as he gathered his breath to shout for the guard. A second was all Torlin needed. A long, slim dagger thrust upwards through the soft tissue of the scribe's throat. It drove up and through throat, tongue, and roof of mouth, to the brain behind. The scribe slumped forward making the smallest of gurgling sounds as Torlin lowered him to the floor. He pulled the knife out of the body and was wiping it off on the scribe's robes when he heard a soft footfall and a sharp intake of breath from the entranceway.

* * *

Torlin looked up at Trissa and answered quickly in the same hushed but urgent tone.

"This could not be avoided. Damn rugs! He surprised me. I was going to stall him. But he started to call out. I had no choice!"

"I cannot believe this!" she exclaimed. The sharpness of her voice was softened by the need to be quiet. "What are we going to do now?"

Torlin grabbed the scribe's robes underneath the man's shoulders.

"Grab the feet. Take him to his cot."

Together they carried the dead man to the adjacent room. Torlin put the body down and moved the heavy cot away from the partition wall. The two of them then placed the body where the cot had been and Torlin put the cot back over the body. He threw blankets and furs over the cot making sure they draped to the ground, hiding what was under the cot from any casual glance.

"That should gain us a few hours - maybe more. Come."

The thief returned to the small office and selected a document he had scanned moments ago. He nodded to himself. Using quill and ink he copied the Commander's signature.

He rolled up the document he had forged, as well as the tax missive that had caught his eye, tucking them in his leather jerkin. He motioned to his companion and silently the thief and Paladin-Elect left the command tent. They had soon retraced their steps back to where Soranyll waited. Luthor was walking towards them, carrying what appeared to be a bundle of clothing under his arm.

"We have to go. Now," stated Torlin once Luthor had reached them.

Luthor looked at the thief, then to Trissa and back to the thief.

"What did he do, Lutrissa?"

"No time," said Torlin. "We really do have to get out of here."

Luthor nodded and handed them each a tabard from the bundle he carried. "Don these. Let's go."

In a few minutes they had reached the camp's north gate and Torlin handed the guard the note he had penned. The trooper was an untutored levy and had some trouble reading the pass, but he recognized the signature well enough. He knuckled his forehead to Torlin, nodded to the others and stood aside as the four riders, wearing the green trimmed tabards of Net fighting men, took to the road leading north. Several minutes went by without anyone saying anything. Luthor eased his mount forward so that he rode beside the thief.

"We aren't going west."

"No," replied Torlin.

"Where are we headed?"

"To Net."

Luthor knew that his friend meant the city of Net.

"I'd rather not place myself in the power of another baron. You know that. Do I assume that things did not go well in the camp and we need a large, busy city in which to hide?"

"Yes," was Torlin's reply.

"Damn," said Luthor.

"Damn," repeated the thief.

* * *

Dusk was fast approaching when the party halted at the still open gates of Net's south wall. Several guardsmen lounged against the walls. A bored guard was going through the motions of checking a wagon while an officer questioned the farmer who was transporting a load of wheat into the city. He waved the man on and motioned the four riders to approach. As Luthor handed the officer the forged pass a bell rang out from inside the walled city. Three of the guards at the gate moved into the gatehouse and started turning a large windlass. The connected chains, gears and pulleys creaked and groaned and Net's south gate started to close itself against the oncoming night. The guard examined the piece of parchment that Luthor had presented, scanned it, looked over the motley crew on horseback and re-read the missive. He nodded to himself looked up at Luthor and nodded again.

"You just made it soldiers. Enter."

The voice of the lookout on the parapet above the gate called out.

"Signal from the South Camp, sir."

The guard looked up and shouted in reply. "Wot's it say?"

"Not sure sir. Too dusty to make out and sun's almost down. Should be able to see once they light the signal fire."

Luthor addressed the guard at the gate who, although he had bade them enter, had not moved himself out of their horses' path.

"Sir. They were having issues with the signal tower when we left a few hours ago."

The guard looked up at Luthor, absently nodded and walked through the gateway to the guard house and climbed up a staircase that was housed in the wall to the parapet above. He stared out over the rolling plain to the South Camp, but it was as the lookout had described. Too dusty to see more than the occasional flash from the mirrors on the camp's signal tower.

The riders slowly walked their horses through the gateway and kept moving at a steady pace. They heard the guard tell the lookout to keep alert for any further messages from the camp and urged his men to finish closing the gate. As the riders turned down a side street a rattle of wood and metal signaled the completion of that task. Luthor's party was soon lost among the many carts, animals and people that made up the evening traffic in one of Net's busier merchant neighborhoods.


	8. 8 The Baroness of Net

**Demon Haunt**

**Chapter 8 The Baroness of Net**

**T**he sights, sounds and smells of a city were tonic to Torlin's ears, and a bane to the elf's. People and animals jostled, carts creaked, hawkers called out to passers-by. Noise, odours and movement, everywhere. Net had grown in the years since Torlin had last passed through. Situated on major roadways and canals that ran through the heart of the Kingdom's best agricultural lands, Net had prospered. The current baron's love of building, inherited from his father, showed itself in strong walls, excellent roads, deepened and widened canals, and a robust, functional, if unimaginative, architecture.

"The old saying is true," commented Trissa. "'Grain is gold'. This barony has done well."

"I have never cared for Net," responded Luthor. "But I will agree. His family have done well for and by their barony. They even do well during a succession war, selling food to each and every clique while maintaining a relative neutrality."

"Perhaps if more of your clans shared that philosophy you would have fewer wars," observed the mage.

"We can discuss the philosophy of war on our ride north, Soranyll," replied the Baron. "For now, we need a place to lie low. Assuming they have found the scribe's body it will not be long before his killer will be sought among those that left the camp this afternoon. I'd have preferred entering Net by one gate and then immediately out another, but the day is gone and all gates will be shut. No way to get out without forcing a gate. I'd rather not have to slaughter a dozen men tonight. And, I do not want Net's army on my ass. So, our thief will have to find us a way out of the mess he created."

Torlin spoke a few words to his lord that no man should speak to his better. Luthor laughed, Trissa glared at the thief, and the elf said nothing.

"I suggest we get rooms at the 'Giggling Boar', if it still stands. It is nearby and we will not be out of place there," stated the thief.

He did not wait for either agreement or dissent but headed off to the west. The others followed. Several minutes later they entered a large square, one of six that could be found throughout the city. Net was too large to have only one market or meeting place. Three centuries ago when the city was first laid out, each of the original quarters, one for the temple communities, one for nobility, one for the guild houses, and one for the plebes, had its own square where like-minded and classed people could meet and mingle. As Net grew, new neighborhoods spread out and intermingled. New additions to the town were made each with its own square that served as local market place and meeting place. That pattern was repeated in most of the larger towns and cities of the Baronies.

The 'Giggling Boar' had been improved upon and enlarged over the years. Torlin noted that the roof had been raised creating a full second floor with garret rooms above it. The roof stood slightly higher than the neighboring shops and inns, and had eaves that overhung the side streets and alleys. A stable across the west alleyway looked very new and had been painted the same colors as the inn.

A boy, leaning against the stable doors saw them heading his way. He shouted to someone inside the building and ran out into the street to greet them. He offered a smart salute to Luthor and asked if he could lead 'sir's' horse to the best groomer in Net, where sir's mount could also have a fine bed of sweet grass at a very reasonable price.

Luthor let the lad prattle on for a bit before pulling four silver coins from his pouch. On seeing the small fortune appear before his eyes the boy's patter slowly halted, ending in mid-sentence. Luthor leaned over the boy and in a stern voice laid out what services he expected for his horse and his friend's mounts. He further described what punishments he would deal out if his orders were not followed. The boy was nodding at each point, and as the list of duties and penalties grew, he realized that the four coins held before him would be hard-earned.

Finishing his business with the stable hand, Luthor turned towards the inn and led the way inside. The hustle and bustle of a large city eating room greeted them. The delicious aroma of stewed and spiced meat, mixed with strong ale and wines, hung in the air. Torlin was reminded of his recent home in Vintesse. With that in mind, his eyes searched out the tables in the back corners off the room. Unluckily, the light was quite good. The windows were tall and clean, letting in a lot of light even this late in the day. Large candles and lanterns were already lit. A tall, thin, balding man of indeterminate age crossed the floor to greet them.

"Soldiers. Welcome. If you need rooms, we got a few. Next meal is in an hour. This lot is just clearing out. Two rules. No fighting and you must bathe once a week. I got two rooms on the second floor, or the south wing garret, both for eight silvers a week. Meals are extra."

With that he thrust out his jaw and stood with hands on his hips ready for the typical bullying or bartering he faced each day as soldiers attempted to negotiate a lower price. Torlin stepped forward and looked the host in the eye, handing him a gold coin.

"We will take the garret room, with meals and baths included. This is for five days."

The inn keeper looked closely at the coin and then back at Torlin. It was a fair price. Not generous, only slightly above the going rate. He was tempted to barter down to four days but there was something in the look of the man before him that told the inn keeper it would be a waste of time. While the lass might be a green recruit, the other three had the look and airs of grizzled veterans. He'd likely be getting no trouble from them. They might even help keep the younger soldiers, and the more unruly visitors drinking at the 'Giggling Boar', in line. The man nodded to the group, pocketed the coin, and returned to his hostly duties.

"A bath," the paladin asked? "Oh, Goddess be blessed!"

Torlin led the group up the stairs to the garret room. Four beds, one in each corner, a tall table and a few chairs in the middle of the room were the room's contents. The ceiling slanted downward from the doorway to the small narrow garret windows. A man would have to kneel to look out them. The room was clean with fresh straw on the floor and hardly any graffiti on the walls.

"Our host keeps a tidy house," opined the elf.

"Typical of Net," offered Torlin. "This barony or at least the city, has strict rules regarding public houses. It is also one of the few cities outside of the South that has covered sewers."

They each claimed a bed, shed their tabards, armor and arms, and hung their gear on the pegs set into the walls.

Trissa pulled some clothing and a small bottle from her bag and started toward the door.

"A bath for me!" She paused at the door, turned to the men and remarked. "I recommend that you gentlemen take this opportunity and bathe before we dine."

The three men looked up at her, nodded absently and returned to their various tasks: Luthor carrying out a minor repair to his armor; Soranyll rummaging through his pack; and, the thief sharpening a small blade. Trissa's brows furrowed. She cleared her throat, attracting their attention again.

"I cannot stress this enough. Bathe. The stable boy smelled better than the three of you." She turned and left the room.

* * *

The wine and beer were watered down, but the fare was decent. Torlin and Luthor made a circuit of the inn, joining in a few games of dice. Trissa and the elf sat near the large fireplace listening and watching some musicians who had entered the inn a few hours ago.

"Play 'The Forest March'," shouted a reveler.

"Yes, yes," shouted a few others! "Play it for all us woodcutters!"

The leader of the small group of musicians, who were from the southwest and not all that familiar with the songs of the north spread his hands in regret, not knowing the tune the woodsmen requested.

The elf looked up, surprised to hear the name of a song that was old when the Elves were young. "How do they know that song," he asked of the Paladin-Elect?

Trissa laughed. "Same tune good mage, but the words have changed. At least according to my music master."

She picked up a mandolin from the table and handed it to him. "Play it faster than you normally would." She stood up on the table to general applause. The elf spent a moment re-tuning the instrument in his hands then started to pluck the strings.

"Faster!" the girl ordered.

He picked at the strings and was soon joined by one of the woodsmen who had pulled a tin whistle from his cloak.

Trissa clapped her hands above her head and started to sing in a clear, strong alto. The first few lines were familiar to the elf but as the song progressed his eyebrow rose. Leave it to humans to take a wonderful ancient ballad like the Forest March and make it into a ribald drinking song. The other woodcutters in the party joined in and soon feet were stamping, hands were clapping and voices, male and female, good and off-key, joined in. The musicians had soon mastered the tune and took over the song. The crowd applauded Trissa and Soranyll as they surrendered the stage to the minstrels.

Leading the girl back to their table Soranyll noted that the strange pairings of forest creatures mentioned in the song was completely unnatural and likely physically impossible. However, he thought it likely that the Druid would indeed have congress with animals.

Luthor and Torlin applauded their companions as they sat down. Torlin looked around the busy inn. "Best we get some sleep," he said. "We have an early day. We will each need to check out a gate in the morning and see at which one the guards are least attentive. We have to get out of here as soon as possible. Oh, and if you wish to gamble stay away from the table in the back corner. Loaded dice."

The following day proved fruitless as far as escaping Net. From their own observations and comments overheard at inns near the gates, it was learned that the gate's guard had been doubled, inspections of those leaving the city had increased, and the gratings across the canals that flowed through Net had been lowered. The last a thing, unheard of in recent memory. The City Watch was on alert and patrols in the less agreeable quarters of Net had increased in both the day and night.

"Then we are stuck here," asked the elf? "For how long?"

Night had fallen and the travelers were sitting at table in the 'Giggling Boar' common room. The late evening crowd had started to arrive and games of chance had begun at the back tables. A bucket of ale stood in the center of their table.

"My man will explain the situation," Luthor indicated Torlin with a wave of his tankard as he started in on the ale.

Torlin do not bother to make a comment or gesture to the Baron. He looked up from his largely untouched drink.

"It is bad, but it could be worse. Entering Net itself was a gamble, I admit. News of a murdered scribe would have been quickly sent far and wide using Net's signal towers and riders. It would have been difficult to traverse Net using the roads. At any other time, even during a succession war, we could have entered and left Net easily. But this new war that is brewing feels different. Baronies are girding for war in a more serious way then they ever have – at least that is what I gather from what I have heard in Vintesse, Harvest and Net. Luthor agrees. The talk everywhere is of a succession war fiercer and bloodier than this kingdom has seem in many generations. Increased vigilance by barony soldiers is now the rule, not the exception."

The girl and elf looked to Luthor, who nodded. Attention returned to the thief as he continued speaking in low tones.

"Last night we could have stormed a gate and escaped Net. But not without bringing down the wrath of Net's baron. We cannot afford to be chased all the way to the Bakklar Moors. We need another way out. Well forged papers might do it. But for that I will need time and materials. A more pressing concern is the random inspections and patrols we are seeing. One of them may catch us, and our papers, dated the day of the scribe's murder, will raise suspicions. I can alter that, but questions will soon be asked of us by our host. Not many new recruits can afford to stay indefinitely at an inn. Or, some junior officer will soon ask us of our posting. I estimate we have another two days, no more, before the net closes on us."

He smiled slightly at his joke. The elf missed it. Trissa just rolled her eyes. Luthor chuckled.

"So, the night after tomorrow we leave. I have tasks for each of you that need to be carried out without fail or any hesitation at exactly the moment dictated. If we become separated, get out of the city if you can. We will meet up north of Net, at the Crow's Crossroads."

"Can we not all sneak out," asked Trissa? "You were a Master Thief. Surely you can get across a city wall?"

Her question was earnest and held no insult or rancor, so Torlin was patient in his rely.

"Yes, fair Paladin. I can cross the wall and I'd bet that the mage could as well. But you and my Lord would be quickly caught. You'd be too loud with your armor and weapons, which I'd wager you will not leave behind? And we would be horseless. Forced to steal mounts which would give any pursuers a starting point from which to track us. So, no. Scaling walls in the dead of night is not the way to go if we want to take our equipment and horses. Besides, there is a three-quarter's moon the next few nights. Not good."

Luthor spoke, indicating the inn's main doorway with a thrust of his chin, as he said, "Things might be getting worse."

A number of armed men wearing the badges and cloaks of Net's City Watch had entered. Several sets of eyes scanned the room. The guard captain motioned the inn's proprietor over. As the host wound his way through the busy room to the guard captain the normal noise and hubbub of a busy inn rose. Whispers buzzed about the room like flies over a table. A few men quietly and quickly gathered their things and set off to the back of the common room, intent on leaving by the back door. A shout from a bystander alerted all to the fact that several guardsmen had entered through the kitchens at the rear of the inn. "Not good," opined Torlin.

"It may have nothing to do with us," offered Trissa.

"Unfortunately, it does," said the mage.

The others looked at him. He was staring intently at the Watch Captain and their host who were having an animated conversation. Soranyll turned to his table companions.

"As soon as I saw the Watch enter, I cast _Owl's Ear_. Even with this rabble making noise I can focus my hearing well enough to catch some of their talk. They are looking for a large man accompanied by three others, one of whom is a female. They say we are deserters... Our host is trying hard not to look at us. And... here they come."

Luthor spoke quickly. "Two days Torlin? Ha! Soranyll get yourself and our Paladin out of here. Torlin, our gear. I will create a distraction."

The Baron stood and moved purposefully toward the Watch Company who were forcing their way through the crowded common room towards their table by the wall. He signaled to the inn's host and raised his voice above the general hubbub.

"I want my money back! Your ale is no better than warm piss! Hey, get outta my way!" This last to the Watch Captain who had moved directly in front of Thalweg, blocking his path.

"In the name of the Baron of Net I am placing you..."

The Captain got no further. Luthor grabbed him with both hands and with a half turn launched the Watch Company's commander up and over several chairs. He crashed onto a table around which several veterans sat playing at cards and dice. Beer, money, various gambling paraphernalia and oaths flew through the air. The soldiers sprang to their feet, two turning to accost Luthor and the others to berate the poor Captain. City Watchmen sprang forth to succor their commander while several of the inn's less savory clients attempted to use the kerfuffle as a distraction and flee the inn. Luthor grabbed another Watchman and a hapless farmer and shoved them both towards a group of inebriated soldiers, all the while roaring about piss warm ale, the scabby whores of Net, and how much better the City Watch was than the sad, lousy excuses for soldiers that Net produced.

Patrons scrambled to get out of the way of the brawling baron, while Watchmen tried to get closer. Pushing and shoving quickly led to blows as bored, drunk soldiers entered the fray. In a trice, the generally peaceful common room of the 'Giggling Boar' had become a riot.

While Luthor was making his distraction, Torlin moved along the wall knocking candles down and hooding lanterns. Seeing this, the elf focused his mind and with a turn of hand and a softly spoken phrase blew out a held breath in a sharp 'huff'. A strong gust of wind entered the inn through the still open front doors and swirled around the room, seeming to gain strength with each circuit it made. By the third pass it was strong enough to blow cards off tables, lift a few skirts and extinguish almost every candle and not a few lanterns. As darkness spread throughout the common room, the wind died. The thief had vanished into the shadows.

In the half-dark, anxious drinkers and drunken fighters called out in alarm. One Watchman pulled out a horn and sounded it, creating even more confusion.

"Our turn to leave," stated Soranyll.

"How," asked a perplexed Trissa? "The doors are still guarded."

The City Watchmen assigned to their duties of guarding exits had stood their ground as ordered. No one was getting out easily.

The elf smiled and pointed to the wooden wall against which they had been sitting. A perfect circle about a yard wide had appeared. The interior of the circle shifted and flowed like water and the girl found herself looking through the wall, out into an alleyway!

"It will only last a moment. Quick with you. Jump through," ordered the mage.

Trissa crouched low, held her breath and with closed eyes, jumped through the opening. Nausea touched her briefly, then passed and an instant later she was on the ground in the alley outside the inn, Soranyll beside her. Looking up she saw a hole in the side of the building. Like a soap bubble bursting, the circle vanished, and the solid wood of the inn's side wall re-appeared. Trissa and the elf were alone in a cold, rainy, narrow lane.

* * *

The confusion of the common room allowed Torlin to slip up the back stairwell, unseen. He entered the garret room and in the dim light of the lantern they had left burning quickly gathered their gear. The elf's belongings and his own were easily placed into saddle bags and a large sack. The Baron's and Paladin's armor was another matter. The heavy chain mail was neatly stowed, ready for travel, but the added encumbrance meant that he would have to make several trips to collect all their equipment.

He opened the largest of the garret windows and peered outside. It was a wet, misty night with light rain. Not ideal for rooftop work. Turning back inside the room the thief cut lengths of a light rope taken from his supplies and tied up Thalweg's and Trissa's gear into two large, heavy bundles. He left several feet of cord trailing from each bundle and tied those to his belt. He then stepped up on a chair and reaching above his head grabbed one of the beams that spanned the room and climbed up into the rafters. Finding a secure position, he hoisted the bundles up one at a time and tied them to a rafter beam. He lowered himself back to the floor, moved the chair up against a wall, blew out the lantern and lifted his and the elf's gear onto his back. He heard shouts and heavy footfalls coming up the stairs.

Stepping to the window, he peered out again. Below him was the narrow, dark alley, with Watchmen now stationed at either end, neither of whom were looking upwards. He clambered out on to the window's slender ledge, reached up to the eaves, and finding a wet but solid hold, swung out from the window to hang above the alley. By sheer strength he hauled himself up on the sloped roof just as the doorway to the garret room was thrust open and several of the City Watchmen rushed in.

"No one here!" shouted a man over his shoulder to someone in the hall.

The Watch Captain pushed his way past the men in the cramped hallway and entered the room. He looked it over quickly, strode to the open window and looking out spied his men in the alley. Shouting to them, he asked for a report. The men below looked around trying to find from where their superior was calling. One of them with keener eyes or ears pointed up to the garret window and called back.

"Nothing, Sir."

Torlin lay flat against the roof listening to the exchange. After a few words the officer drew his head back in and closed the window. He noted a sword and mace hung on a wall and a few helmets and bits of traveling gear scattered about the room. Looking up he saw the finished beams of trusses and rafters that extended upwards into darkness. His gaze returned to the sword. Nodding, he appointed a man to guard the room and with the rest of his squad checked the remaining rooms before returning to the common room where he had left his prisoner heavily bound and watched over by his four sturdiest men.

* * *

Torlin heard the sound of armored men passing below. He peered over the roof edge in time to see some soldiers disappear around a corner. One Watchman still guarded the alley. Quietly, he carried his pack and the large sack over the roof and down the other side. Here the inn's roof overhung the roof of an adjacent building.

He dropped onto the lower roof and made his way up to the crest at the south end where a chimney expelled white smoke. Next to the brickwork chimney he found a door set in the roof. The handle was a simple latch and the door opened with only a mild groan. All was dark and quiet inside. He sat there for a moment letting his eyes adjust and then slipped inside on to a wooden landing with ladders and catwalks running off it. He was inside a large warehouse. Wooden racks held numerous boxes and crates, bundled goods, unidentifiable from a distance, and many piles of hides. Several lanterns placed haphazardly about the ground floor gave a feeble light. The level he was on consisted of many catwalks and what appeared to be a rail system for hoists and pulleys. From what Torlin could make out, it looked as if goods could be loaded at one end of the warehouse, lifted up to the second level and then pulled along the rail system for the length of the warehouse where they could then be lowered into racks or cribs.

He walked around the landing that surrounded the chimney and found a small wooden platform behind it. The chimney rose from a small shack built on the floor of the warehouse. A foreman's station, he thought. Placing his lode onto the platform he returned to the landing and climbed back out onto the roof, making the return journey to the inn's garret window quickly and quietly.

A soft glow from the window told him that someone had left a lantern burning. He moved along the roof to a position over a dark window of an adjacent room and lowered himself to the sill. He was soon inside standing quietly in the dark, listening to the sounds of the inn. The common room had been cleared out by the City Watch so the only sounds were mumbled conversations and snores coming from rooms below him. The garret seemed abandoned.

With his eyes now adjusted to the dark, he stepped softly to the far wall and climbed onto a chair, from which he once again clambered into the rafters. This time he worked his way back along the beams to the partitioning wall between the rooms. Peering over the three-quarter wall he saw a man in the uniform of the City Watch sitting on one of the beds. The fellow looked quite comfortable, propped up by blankets, his left leg stretched out before him on the bed, the other dangling over the side, foot resting on the floor. His head nodded only to jerk upwards then settle again, his chin on his chest. Torlin made himself comfortable and waited for the inevitable.

The guard's sleep was longer in coming than Torlin had hoped. The rain of earlier in the evening had been cleared from the skies by a strong wind and the shutters rattled with the gusts. Roof timbers groaned on occasion, making the sleepy Watchman jerk awake, only to settle back into a fitful sleep.

Torlin judged that enough time had passed and made his way over the partitioning wall and along the rafters to where he had hid the Baron's and Paladin's equipment. It would have been simpler to have killed the guard and then remove the gear, but with the wind noise to cover what little noise he might make, he chose to hone his other talents instead. The gods knew he needed the practice. Torlin moved the gear back along the rafters to a darkened room, then carried it across the hall into an unoccupied room on the opposite side of the inn. From there he opened the window and lowered it the warehouse roof, which was only a few feet away and a yard lower. As the warehouse roof was not steeply pitched, he left the gear sitting there and returned to his former room. The door had been left ajar and he peeped inside. The guard was still asleep. Beside him on the wall was Luthor's sword and the Paladin's mace.

Torlin stepped into the room, slowly making his way toward the weapons. It was at this moment, with a final strong gust, that the winds died leaving behind a stillness that itself seemed loud. Torlin froze in place. The guard snored softly. The ex-thief continued his stealthy walk. When he was beside the sword, he gingerly took the weapon off the wall. He was prepared for, well he was not quite sure for what that he was prepared. Once, many years ago, he had wielded Luthor's sword. He had had the distinct impression that the sword had not cared for it. Since then he had shied away from getting too close to the blade. This night he had no impression of anything. It was just a sword. With his other hand he removed the Paladin's mace. Stepping backwards, he left the room, never taking his eyes off the sleeping guard, except to lift a blanket from a bed near the doorway.

He made three trips back up the warehouse roof and onto the landing by the chimney. Soon all the recovered equipment was placed on the platform high up near the roof of the warehouse. He had left the helmets in the room. It would have been too much to carry and those articles could be easily replaced. Curling up in the stolen blanket, he was soon asleep.

* * *

Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent looked across the table at the small, grey man seated opposite. The man was writing in a large book, making slow meticulous strokes with his quill. He finished entering the date and looked up at the larger man with watery eyes.

"Name?" he asked.

"Karl Biorn," replied Luthor.

"Occupation?"

"Sell-sword."

"How long have you been in Net?"

"Almost two weeks," lied Luthor.

"You are charged with murder and trespass in to Net with the purpose of spying. How do plead?"

"Not guilty."

"Who are your companions? Where are they?"

"I travel alone. Don't know who you mean."

The small man sighed, put down his quill pen and looked up at the man who said his name was Karl Biorn.

"Really, sir. This will go easier for you if you stop lying. We will get to the truth. Our Baron favors a quick resolution to these sorts of things. That means torture. He returns in a few days. You have until then to answer truthfully. Guard, place him in a cell. And not a nice one!"

Four soldiers surrounded Luthor with drawn swords. They were taking no chances with the prisoner. If half of what the city watch reported was true about the man's fighting prowess, then he was dangerous. The guards escorted Luthor from the Investigator's office down two levels to the pits which were quiet, damp, cold and dirty. An old man wearing a grubbier version of a Net soldier's uniform was waiting for them in a small guard room. He waved them to come forward and led them down a narrow hall. Several closed stout oak doors, each with a metal grille set in it, lined the hall. The old man stopped at one and took a set of large keys out of a pocket, using one to unlock the door. He pushed it open and with a flourish and a small bow he indicated that Luthor was to enter. The Baron walked in and sat down on an old, creaky bed covered in musty straw and a threadbare blanket. He held his arms out in front of him. The jailer used another key to unlock his manacles.

"Huh. Seems you done this before! You have the look of a northerner, maybe even barbarian blood? Huh? You sort always get into trouble. Just cannot handle city life. I knew this one fella..."

"Enough, old-timer!" shouted one of Luthor's escort. "He is not to be tortured by your stories and reminisces. The Baron will deal with him soon enough."

The men backed out of the cell and the door closed. Luthor heard the lock turn. Footsteps echoed in the hall, fading until he was alone in dark silence. He stretched out on the rank bedding, turned onto his side, and promptly fell asleep.

* * *

Thalweg woke to the sounds of a voice and the banging of pots. He rose, stretched and stepped up to the grille in his door. A few torches had been lit along the hall and he saw a scullery boy carrying a large pot. Behind him, carrying bowls and spoons, banging them together, was the old guardsman.

"Up. Up you buffoons. Criminals and thieves arise!" he cackled.

The strange duo made straight for Luthor's cell. It appeared that either he was going to be fed first or there were no other prisoner's in this part of Net's dungeon.

The turnkey stopped before the door and pulled out his keys. Selecting a smaller key than those used last night, he applied it to a lock on the grille. The grille swung down and a bowl of hot mash was thrust through the opening. Luthor took it, thanked the boy and returned to his bed where he sat eating the not unpleasant dish.

"Oh, a 'thank you' from the barbarian! Better mannered than most of the guards, you are. Hee-hee." The old man laughed at his own little jest, locked the grille and shuffled back down the hall to the guard room, followed by the boy.

Luthor spent the rest of the day examining his cell. The light from the hallway torches helped only a little. Most of the examination was by touch. He ran his hands over every square foot of wall, floor and ceiling. Not a loose stone anywhere. The only opening in the cell besides the door was the shit hole in the far corner. The stench was bearable except that every few hours, horrible vapors and an odd gurgling sound rose out of it. The hole was only slightly larger than a large man's hand span across. A tight, secure little cell it was. He amused himself by counting the stones that made up the walls and floor of his cell.

Towards what he judged to be the end of the day he heard the stomp of boots in the hall. His cell door opened and guards with drawn weapons entered. He sat on the bed while heavy chains were attached to his arms and legs. He was escorted back up several flights of stairs and taken to an apartment. A large bed was set against one wall, a few chairs and tables of good quality were stationed around the room. Comfortable rugs covered the stone floor and a small fire place held hot coals. A young man stood in the middle of the room. He was dressed simply but well. He nodded to Luthor and removed his chains. He indicated a small door at the back wall and then the bed, where a robe was laid out.

"Please bathe and change. Food will be brought shortly. Questions will be asked. This door is the only way out, and it is guarded."

The man and the guards left the room. Luthor heard the scrape of a key in a lock and what sounded like a bar being placed across the door. He was alone in the room. He was of half a mind to not take the bath. Too bad if his interrogator didn't like the sight or smell of him! But he quickly dismissed that thought once he entered the tiled bathing room. A large wooden tub filled with hot, steaming, scented water beckoned.

Luthor doffed his soiled garments and stepped into it. A long, hot soak would have been enjoyable but not knowing how much time he had he did not linger. Undoing his braid, he washed his long hair, still mostly blond but recently streaked with grey. A quick scrub of all other parts and he climbed out, pulling a large, thick, soft towel from a small shelf to dry himself. Spying a comb on another shelf, he used it on his hair and mustachios, then tied his hair back with scrap of towel. He'd braid it again when it was drier. He returned to the first room and donned the robe. It was of good quality, comfortable, and warm. A broad sash was attached to it, which he tied about his waist.

Thalweg was stoking the coals in the fireplace when he heard the bar being removed from the door. This was followed by the sound of a key turning in a lock. The door opened to reveal the same man who had met him in the room a half hour ago. He looked at Luthor with approval, stepped aside and two servants, one a man, the other a woman, both middle-aged, entered carrying trays. They set the trays on a table to one side of the bed, uncovered several dishes and a flagon of wine, and left the room. Luthor was admiring what he hoped was to be his repast, but not his last meal, when a voice addressed him by name from the doorway.

"Baron Thalweg. So good of you to join me for dinner."

Turning, he saw a woman wearing a well-fitted, emerald-green, belted gown. She had started that journey into middle-age where a well-rounded figure verges on buxom. She was tall, her hair a golden-red pile worn high upon her head. Her eyes, as a deep green as her dress, stared frankly at him in his robe. A striking figure of a woman, thought Luthor.

"Baroness, I assume?" he asked and bowed.

"Lady Smantha, Baroness of Net," she replied with a curtsy. "We met at Council a few years ago," she said. "I remember you spoke that day about a tax issue."

Luthor recognized her and knew there was no sense in denying his own identity.

"It was almost five years ago, Lady Smantha," replied Luthor. "As I recall, your husband voted against my resolution."

"Castigan," she called to the man at the doorway. "The Baron of Crescent and I will dine together tonight. We have much to discuss. I am certain that he will give us his parole and not attempt anything as foolish as an escape tonight." This last was almost a question.

Luthor placed his hand over his heart and lowered his head, promising to be on his best behavior until daylight.

The Baroness turned from Thalweg to her retainer. "You are dismissed."

Castigan bowed to his lady, gave a half bow to Luthor and left the room closing the door behind him. There was no sound of key or bar. Luthor looked at the Baroness with upraised brows.

"There are guards in the hallway," she explained. "They have orders to kill you if I do not leave this apartment in good health."

Luthor shrugged his shoulders and turned to the food on the table.

"If you would be so kind to be seated, my lady?" he asked. "And what of the Baron? He's not joining us?"

She crossed the room and sat on the chair he held out for her. Once seated, she poured wine from the flagon. "My husband plays soldier and will not be home for a few days. I thought we could get to know each other a bit better in that time." She smiled at him a smile of warm steel.

Thalweg held up his glass of wine and toasted his hostess. "To a ruler as noble as Siamorphe, as just as Tyr, and as beautiful as Sune. Smantha, have you ever heard the tale of my adventures in the Orc Alps? It really is a fascinating story."

"Oh, do tell."

The meal was very good, the wine more than fair, and the company striking looking, witty and flirtatious. Luthor kept this hostess amused until the candle had burned low.

"Baron Thalweg. Luthor. I have enjoyed our meal and your stories. The Lady Becca told me that you were a fine dancer and a gracious guest when you stayed at her estate several years past. And I see that, as far as conversation goes, she did not exaggerate. But we must be serious for a moment. It is past time that we discussed your situation. You know that Net seldom chooses sides in a Succession War?"

"In the past, Net neutrality has been a well-known and welcome fact, Lady Smantha," interrupted Thalweg. "But I fear that this war is shaping up to be something different. Net may be forced to make a choice. Surely it's better to choose one's own course then to be forced to one?"

"I have heard the same about this war from my counselors, friends on the Council, my husband and from our priest's readings of what they say are omens. However, if Net must choose, then I fear it will not be for Duke Storm."

She pointed to a map that hung above the fireplace. It was sketch of the Barony of Net and showed its rivers, canals and roadways, as well as major towns and some of its more notable geographic features.

"You see those roads? Fine roads built by generations of Net's rulers. They are our claim to fame. They allow us to transport more grain and goods to South faster than any other barony. They are our strength and our great weakness. An invading army from South would use them to spread throughout Net. However, once they reached our further borders their advance would slow because of our neighbor's poorer roadways. We would have thousands of soldiers encamped in our lands. Imagine the cost of keeping them fed? The pillage? The rapine? If we stay neutral, or declare for Storm, we would suffer. As an ally to South we may at least spare ourselves the fate of being divided among petty southern nobles as war spoils."

Luthor studied the map. It was of good quality and quite detailed. "You do not allow for the possibility of the new barons defeating South? I see your roads pointing like a dagger into South's heart. To Capitol itself. Using them, troops from the Marches, Central, Western and Eastern Provinces could be in Southern Province in a week. The southern barons know this, so neutral or allied to whomever you wish, Net will become a battle ground."

Lady Smantha seemed to peruse the map but in her mind's eye she saw only destruction of the land and people she loved. She shook her head, turned back to the table, and took a sip of wine.

"Battle plans no longer concern you, Baron Thalweg. You have three choices. The best for you is give us your full parole - that you will not attack, or by word or deed make war upon Net or its allies for ten years. Your parole will be recorded in Council and you will be allowed to leave Net. Your second choice is to be ransomed by your barony. You would stay here in this apartment until the ransom is paid. You would then be escorted safely home. The third choice is to stay here in Net not as our guest but as our prisoner. That small, smelly, cramped hole in which you spent last night will be your home until this war ends. Your answer, sir?"

Thalweg leaned forward over the table holding the Baroness's eyes with a calm, even gaze.

"Very well, Smantha. Here is what I think of those choices. The first one removes me and my forces from pursuing this war. Not to boast, much, but I am one of Storm's best generals and my men are some of the best trained of any barony in this kingdom. Strength of arms aside, neutering me makes Storm look weak. Not a good position from which to start a war. South cannot be allowed to win. That is not an acceptable outcome to me. As for the second choice, I do not doubt that the ransom will be set so high that it will bankrupt my barony. I'd not be able to afford any assistance to Storm and would likely be so destitute I'd have to sell my lands and title to feed my family. Or, if my wife says no to the ransom, then I am sure some southern baron will pay that price for my freedom. Only I doubt very much that I would make it back to Crescent alive. That leaves the third choice."

He stood and bowed to the Baroness. "If you would be so kind as to have me returned to my cell?"

Smantha also stood and bowed her head to Luthor. "Wit, intelligence, bravery. And from what I heard about your capture at the inn, I know that you are also a great fighter. Now, steadfastness for friends and allies. You really do almost measure up to all I have heard of you."

"'Almost'? Where does the man fall short of the myth?" he asked with a smile that indicated he was not terribly concerned about the answer.

She smiled, beguilingly, back at him. "The Lady Becca mentioned certain other... talents that you shared with her. I thought I might assess those for myself?" She pointed to the candle. "We have a few hours before you must return to your cell."

The Baroness pulled at her belt; her gown opened, slid off her shoulders, and gathered in a pile at her feet. She was naked beneath. A striking figure of a woman indeed thought Luthor, as he undid his robe.


	9. 9 Lies and Lost Sheep

**Demon Haunt**

**Chapter 9 – Lies and Lost Sheep**

**T**orlin woke to the squeal of ropes and pulleys. Another day's work had begun at Gilner's Warehouse. Throwing his blanket aside, he rose and stretched. A few pops from his back and left knee and he was ambulatory. Walking around the chimney to the landing he peered over the edge and watched the workmen below. It took only a moment for him to identify the foreman and the owner; the former loud, the latter, well-dressed and quiet.

Torlin could see more of the warehouse interior with the morning light filtering into the structure through high windows. It appeared that a goodly amount of the wares stored were materiel destined for the army. He would not have far to go to find replacement helmets for Luthor and the Paladin.

He returned to the platform and started to work out the knots his muscles had earned from last night's rooftop work. If last night had been twenty years ago, even ten years, he would not be this sore after a few rooftop crossings. Age really was a thief. As he stretched, his body started to remember the old exercises learned in his youth at Jurann. He focused his mind and could hear his old trainer's voice calling out the Ten Steps. He went through the complete exercise sequence twice before having to stop to rest. Sweat poured from his face; his breath was ragged. He sprawled on the platform and waited for the dancing black spots to clear from his vision.

The ex-thief focused his breathing, calming himself. Old skills were coming back.

Old habits, too. Torlin looked at the sack holding the elf's belongings. Without any hesitation he untied it and shook its contents out on the platform. Some clothing, a few strange baubles made of feathers, hide, and metal scraps, and what looked to be a partly carved wooden figurine about as large as his hand, a whittling knife, and three packages, all wrapped in coarse cloth and tied with twine. He felt each package, finding hard, cylindrical objects in the smaller one. He carefully unwrapped it, memorizing each fold of cloth and the knot used to tie it. Inside he found a wooden tube that held quills and a small bottle of green ink – he'd seen these at the inn in Vintesse. The tube also held some sealing wax and a small bag of very fine sand for drying ink.

The second package held a tightly rolled bundle of familiar looking parchments and vellum sheets. He untied the roll and quickly rifled through them, stopping when he came to a sketch of a man's head. It was a finely detailed drawing; a reproduction of a famous painting, known to anyone who had toured the palace in Capitol. Good King Tristan, the last true king of what was now derogatorily called the Kingdom of the Baronies. The crown worn by the helmeted king in the portrait was of a different style than the one worn by recent rulers, and shown on contemporary seals. It was simpler, less ornate. Instead of three arches converging to support a _monde_ over the wearer's head, this one had several small spikes extending upwards from the circlet. The drawing was a good reproduction. He absently wondered why Soranyll had it in his collection of documents. Quickly skimming the rest of the manuscripts and finding nothing of interest or value, he moved on to the third package.

Torlin opened the last package and pulled out three objects. The first one he examined was a small, finely detailed book, hardly larger than his palm. A brass clasp held it shut and no matter how he poked and prodded he could not open it. The second item was a slim ivory tube, as long as his forearm and yellow with age. After removing the end cap, he could smell the faint odour of sulphur. Inside the tube, swathed in silk, was a carved wooden stick, one end wrapped in a strangely textured red leather, the other end blackened and burnt. Torlin gingerly put back, what he assumed was a magic wand, into its holder. Ah, the dangers of rummaging through a mage's purse!

The third item was a small, plain leather pouch wrapped in a large piece of red silk that had several small runes, drawn in ink, scattered across its surface. The runes were joined by a series of curvilinear inked lines. Inside the pouch was the pendant that Soranyll had shown him in Vintesse.

He rubbed the pearl. No matter how hard he grasped it, how hard he listened for it, the faint sensation he had experienced in Vintesse was not present here. He held the necklace at arm's length and studied it. No doubt. It was identical to what Leanorall had worn. He tried to remember what Soranyll had said and done immediately before he had felt that faint pulsating sensation in his hands.

Over the course of decades, Torlin had spent enough time with Dalin and other mages to learn a few, simple things about magic. He murmured a simple command word. A version of "go" or "start" that Dalin had taught him twenty years ago. Nothing happened. He was about to return the pendant to its bag when he hesitated. He held the trinket up once again and repeated the command, but this time in Elvish. While he was not fluent in the language, he could read much of it, and could speak many words and simpler phrases. A mere breath after the last syllable of the simple Elvish command was spoken, he could feel the warmth of the pendant in his hand. A faint throbbing - what Soranyll had said was his niece's heartbeat. He looked at the pendant for a full minute, hoping he was wrong, before speaking a command of negation. The sensation stopped and the warmth faded from the bauble.

A lie. Trickster magic.

Once his fury had abated, Torlin's first next near-rational thought was to leave Net that night and return to Vintesse. The Baron and his party could evade capture, or not, on their own. But a return to Vintesse was not an option. Only in a remote corner of the kingdom, in Thalweg's barony, might he be safe.

He angrily shook his head, trying to reason out an answer to "why"? Why the subterfuge. Why trick an old friend?

The simplest answer was that neither the Baron nor the elf could be certain that Leanorall was still alive, and had needed the ruse to strengthen their case for Torlin's help. But what proof was both so convincing that it could sway Thalweg of the need for rescue, but so weak that it could not convince Torlin? He knew could not find an answer along that path; he needed to speak with Thalweg.

The ex-thief left the question of Leanorall and shifted his thoughts to the problem of the Soul-Reaver. Assuming that not all he had been told was a pack of lies, and that the elven mage could hold the beast, then why was Torlin's help needed? Luthor had said that he needed Torlin because the thief had pushed further into the cave than anyone else. While that was true, he had only been a few yards ahead of the others when the attack came from the shadows.

He shuddered and forced himself to breathe calmly, keeping the picture of the cavern in his mind. Slowly the fear abated enough for him to picture the past. He had seen nothing of interest. They had passed some bodies, badly decomposed, of both animals and men. The cavern had been used in times past, as there had been torch brackets on some walls. A few alcoves or smaller rooms opened off the main chamber. Old crates lay scattered about. They'd had little time to check their contents before the attack. The main chamber in which they fought and lost so much had had rough uneven walls, with many many nooks and crannies. The thief was sweating again and his breathing had increased, becoming fast and ragged. He grabbed a waterskin and splashed cool liquid over his head and onto his face. He sat there trembling for several minutes. After he regained his breath, he set about returning the articles to their place in the elf's bag.

He stopped suddenly.

Thalweg had not actually said he needed _Torlin_. He'd said that he _needed_ a thief's skills. But what could a thief do against a Demon that a paladin or cleric could not? It made no sense. What else had been said that night? Soranyll was working on a spell to hold the creature. Not that the elf had crafted a spell, but was _working_ on one. What if he still needed to complete it? Torlin pondered that.

His old friend, Dalin, had been quite open about magic and its uses. A rare thing in a mage. Most were so damn secretive. Dalin had explained that spells, especially complex ones, required components. He had likened spell casting to cooking. The ingredients were vital but so too were the method of preparation and presentation. Substitutions could ruin a meal, or a spell. Poison a guest or kill the caster. He knew that the more powerful the magic being created, the more costly, rare or powerful the ingredients in the spell. Now that made some sense. Luthor did not need a thief to defeat a demon. He needed a thief to steal something that could be used to defeat a demon.

Tyr's left hand!

The Baron would have been best served by hiring a thief from the Guild out of Capitol. Had he tried and failed? Was the job that dangerous? Perhaps it was a question of trust. Whatever it was that needed stealing was extremely valuable or dangerous; the Baron had been forced to rely on Torlin. What were Thalweg and the elf up to? The truth could only be uncovered once he confronted Thalweg. So be it. He had best get to work. It was going to be a long couple of days.

* * *

Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent, was feeling very pleased with himself. What man would not be in a good mood after a fine meal, good wine and an excellent bed-mate? The rank cell to which he had been returned after his few hours of delight with the Baroness did spoil things, but it had been a far better evening than he had expected. He was settling into the creaky cot and would have drifted off thinking of firm breasts, tireless passion and flashing green eyes when a voice, coming from the cell door's grille, addressed him.

"Kind of you to return to your cell. I feared I'd have to search the entire keep for you." Thalweg looked through the inky darkness to his door. A pale splotch could have been a face.

"Ah, Torlin, my man. Good of you to come by. I assume you have a plan of escape? Horses waiting? A way over, through or under the city wall?"

"I am working on that, my Lord. Just wanted to make sure that your imprisonment was not unbearable."

"Well, I was asked a number of questions."

"And return smelling of wine and perfume. I do hope the pain of that particular torture was not too much?"

"Bearable. Bearable," the Baron replied.

"And you? Keeping busy?"

"Very. Things are afoot in Net. It would be best if we left sooner rather than later. But first, I thought we should have a chat."

"Oh?" Thalweg sat up. He knew that tone in Torlin's voice. "About what?"

"A fake pendant."

"Ah. That."

"Yes. That!"

"Soranyll's idea, not mine. He felt you would need something more than what we had to be convinced. If alive, she can still be saved..."

"Stop it. You need me to steal something so that Soranyll can complete his spell. Something dangerous, or kept in a dangerous place. Something you'd prefer to not trust to a guild-thief. That's why you came for me."

"I was hoping to share all that with you a little later."

"No apologies? No "old friend" patter?"

"Would you believe an apology, Torlin?"

"Likely not." The Baron stood and crossed to the door.

"Get me out of Net. The Paladin and elf too. And I will tell you what it's all about."

"Tell me now, or stay here. I understand the Baron of Net returns in a few days. I doubt his method of questioning will be to your liking."

"Soranyll and Trissa don't know the whole story. Get us out of the city and you have my word that all will be revealed."

"The elf and Paladin mean nothing to me."

"Then we are at an impasse. I will take my chances on my own. It is not impossible for me to escape Net without your aid."

"True," replied Torlin. "Just very unlikely."

"There really is a chance she's still alive."

Silence descended between the two men. Old friends who knew the others' strengths and weaknesses, who had faced death together many times, had no room to bluff. Each knew the other too well.

"A compromise," stated Torlin. "I will get you out of this cell, out of Net, and re-united with the others. You will then tell me all. After that, we will see if we travel any further together."

"Agreed. Now get me out of this wretched hole."

"Ah. That will have to wait until tomorrow, my Lord."

"What? You slimy little sneak! Why?" It was impressive how Thalweg could roar in a whisper.

"If they find you gone, an alarm will be raised. I still need several hours to collect the others and set up my plan to get through a gate. Tomorrow night all will be ready. Same time. Stay strong and do not give way no matter what dastardly things they do to you."

"Torlin. Torlin!" hissed the Baron. There was only silence in the pits beneath Net's keep, save for a soft snoring coming from the guard room down the hall.

* * *

"Honestly, Soranyll. You must come down from there. You have been up in that tree for almost two days! We need to find the others. I am worried about Luthor."

Branches rustled and a limb of the large tree bent forward until it almost touched the ground. The elf stepped off the bough and the limb sprang up extending itself heavenward and aligning with the other branches. Trissa thought it most untree-like behaviour. The elf was smiling. Positively beaming.

"Can you believe it Lady Lutrissa? Such an old, beautiful tree, in a human city? Amazing!"

"Yes, yes. A tree," she repeated. "As you shouted down at me yesterday. Sit and eat. The monks have brought us our meal."

She sat on a bench at a small wooden table that had been set up in the courtyard of the Temple complex. Surrounded by low walls and buildings on all four sides the courtyard reflected the autumn midday light making for a bright and cheery little spot. Vines and ivy grew along two of the side walls, small pines and ash trees along another. Potted plants and small vegetable plots were spread throughout the courtyard making it more garden than yard. And in the middle of it all stood a huge cottonwood tree, or what appeared to be a cottonwood. Trissa could not be sure. The trunk was yards wide and the tree, although gnarled, stood strong.

They had arrived at the Triune God's temple complex and sought sanctuary the very night they had escaped capture at the inn. Lutrissa's standing as a Paladin-Elect had gained them entry to the interior and a degree of respect from the clerics and lay brothers who resided there. The temple was also home to a small group of Tempuran clergy, so a Paladin-Elect of the questing and justice-seeking Exarch of the Red Knight, an ally of Tempus, was welcome.

In the Baronies, allied religious orders often had use of other's facilities. While such relationships were mostly informal, they could last years or even decades. When the Deities warred or argued, such conveniences were abruptly ended. But all seemed well between Tyr, Imater, Torm and like-minded deities. And. The Tormian head-priest politely refused to ask any questions of the Paladin-Elect. His sole duty was to aid her in her quest. She and the elf had been granted use of the common areas and given a small room in which to sleep. The cloister cell brought back happy memories of her days of training at the Tempuran Sanctuary in Capitol.

Soranyll had slept in the tree.

The table at which she sat had been placed in the shade of that large tree. A monk set down trays of food for their midday meal. No wine was permitted in the temple complex except for use in the sacraments, so they drank a weak ale. Trissa had spoken with the monks yesterday and had some idea of the layout and state of affairs in the city of Net. She had not dared yet to travel further than the temple doors and peek out into the streets. The elf had spent his time in the tree and in the temple library. She had no idea what he had been up to, but he was happier than she had ever seen him in the weeks they had been together.

Another monk, hooded like his fellows, approached them, carrying a jug. He placed it down on the table.

"You may find this ale more to your liking," he said in a raspy voice. "It is from the Abbess' private cellar."

"Why thank you, Brother. And please, thank the Abbess for us," responded Trissa sampling the dark beer. It was far superior to what they had been offered earlier.

The monk sat down on the bench beside her and poured a cup for himself. Throwing back his hood, Torlin replied. "Um, best not to let her know we have this. I stole it."

Trissa almost choked on her beer. Sputtering and cursing, she wiped the beer from her mouth and chin. The elf smiled, shook his head and drank deeply from his cup. It was good.

Clearing her throat, Trissa turned on the thief. "This is no benighted temple of Mask," she railed. "Nor to Beshaba, or the Dark One! You should not be practicing your arts here!"

"Why is it that so many people assume all thieves worship Mask, or other dark entities? Lady Luck is more to my liking. And, as I have also donated to the Triune God in times past, I am not stealing from him so much as taking back a small portion of what I have previously given."

The Paladin-Elect stared at him, slowly shaking her head in disbelief.

Soranyll asked the obvious question. "What of Thalweg?"

"Yes", pleaded Trissa. "Where is Luthor? Is he well? We guessed that he was captured. Oh, have they hurt him?"

Seeing the girl's obvious distress over the Baron's fate, Torlin tempered his response. Not that Thalweg deserved that small mercy. But Trissa did.

"He is being pressured to give his surrender. But knowing Luthor, he is giving them a hard time and will stall until rescue comes. Which happens late tonight. Here's the plan."

* * *

Soranyll and Trissa were kept busy the rest of the day delivering sealed missives and small packages to odd locations and even odder people scattered about the City of Net. The elf and the maid walked or rode about the city, wearing the green trimmed tabard of Net's fighting men. Their evening was no less busy, collecting horses, supplies and equipment from various places around the city. Soranyll was surprised to see their own mounts waiting for him at a stable in the east end of Net. Trissa found two pack animals, loaded with gear, waiting for her at a warehouse next to the 'Giggling Boar'.

Th elf was stopped twice by a senior officer and asked for his written orders, or the password of the day. On the first occasion, he nervously offered the password that Torlin had provided. Relief swept through him as it was accepted and he was told to go about his business. He nodded, offered a salute, and continued with his list of errands. His respect for the thief's plans, and his ability to foresee and surmount obstacles, grew as the night progressed.

Trissa was stopped only once by a soldier, and that was for a personal reason, not a military matter. She ended up agreeing to meet him for some wine the next day. Shaking her head at the fickleness and single driving purpose of men, she moved on to the next task on her list. With each chore completed, she only grew more frustrated. Why did this little thief have her traipsing about Net? To what purpose? And where was Luthor? Surely escaping the Baron's keep required the combined skills of the Luthor, the mage, and herself?

* * *

Doors slamming, voices calling, and the jingle of arms and armour woke Thalweg from his evening nap.

"Ho, barbarian! You are wanted upstairs, again. Hee-hoo", cackled the turnkey. His jailer was accompanied by two large, grim men with drawn swords.

In silence, Thaweg was escorted up stairways to a familiar door, outside of which stood Castigan. The major-domo nodded to the Baron and opened the door, bidding him to enter. Luthor stepped inside the room, stopping just inside the doorway. He was not alone. Two men wearing the livery of Net stood to either side of the door. Each held a large wooden club. Another man was poking a bed of coals in the fireplace with an iron, its tip, red-hot. A large, heavy, stained wooden table, fitted with shackles, stood where the bed had been.

The door to the bath opened and a fourth man entered the room. Tall and thin, with black eyes and hair, he sported a well-trimmed beard. Dressed in a dark green riding clothes, he held a small towel in his hand.

"Ah, Baron Thalweg. Just washing up. Dusty ride, don't you know? I have some questions for you, and I do expect different answers than those you gave my wife, last night," stated the Baron of Net. "Shall we begin?"

**End of Part 1 of ****Demon Haunt**


	10. Escape

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**Chapter 10 – Escape**

**S**omeone was shaking his shoulder. Why couldn't they just let him sleep? The shaking continued, and now they were talking, repeating his name. Luthor, Luthor, Luthor. The shaking was getting rougher.

Thalweg grunted and opened his eyes. Well, one eye. Just the left one. The right eye did not want to open. He saw a lit torch set in a wall sconce. What fool lit a torch on board ship? That should be a glassed lantern! By Torm's left testicle – some idiot would be cleaning decks for weeks for that violation!

There was a man kneeling by his cot. He looked familiar. Torlin. Thalweg tried speaking, coughed to clear his throat, and tried again.

"Have we made port?" His voice was raspy.

"Port?"

"Hlath!" Thalweg growled. "Those were my order before this fever. Damn you, Torlin. If you and Gloom have screwed up and gotten us lost, I'll have you both tossed overboard!"

Why was speaking so difficult? And Tyr, but he ached. His head was swimming. Breathing hurt.

Torlin looked down at his baron. The man had been severely beaten. One eye was swollen shut; he was pale and sweating. Hlath? That had been years ago. Thalweg was delirious.

"Luthor. We're not on the _Old Man's Revenge_. We're in Net", stated Torlin.

"Net?"

"Net. In the Baronies."

"The Baronies? I thought we were at sea…"

"That was 'a thousand miles ago and a hundred years away', or so the saying goes", responded the thief.

"Hmmph…. It's all coming back to me. It would seem I angered the Baron of Net."

"Oh? How did you do that?" Asked Torlin, sarcastically. "Adultery, perhaps?"

"No", replied Thalweg, with what might have been a chuckle. "Obstinacy. I refused his kind offer. As for his wife, theirs is a political union. He doesn't much care with whom she trundles. And, I swear his pleasure at my torture was almost as great as was hers in my bed!"

"And yet, having pleased both your hosts, albeit in very different ways, you lie chained in a cell."

"Shut up, and get me out of here", ordered Thalweg. 

* * *

Torlin quickly and expertly picked the locks on Thalweg's shackles and helped the man sit up. The Baron gasped in pain, holding his left side. Broken ribs, mused the thief? Torlin very much doubted that Thalweg would be able to stand, much less slink out of Net's keep. Not without aid. He pulled a steel flask from beneath his leather jerkin and handed it to the injured man.

"Take three swigs. No more!"

Thalweg took three large gulps. Fiery liquid burned his throat. The burning sensation spread out from his mouth, throat and stomach, warming his body even to the tips of his toes and fingers. He sat up straighter, breathing more easily.

"What the hell was in that", he asked of the thief, handing back the flask.

"A little something I stole", replied the thief. "It is a tonic, not a healing elixir. It will wear off in a few hours and you may be even worse off than you were a few minutes ago. I hoped it would not be necessary, but…"

"As long it's enough to get me out of Net! What's the plan?"

"We were going to ascend several stories, climb out a window, crawl down the face of a tower, slip along a parapet or two, and drop down a few walls. But, even with the tonic doing its work, you will not have the strength or balance to do that. So, it is out through the kitchens to the gardens, and through a small sally port."

"That sounds easier than the window and wall way", said Thalweg, as he stood, swaying slightly. "Why's that the second choice?"

"My preferred route, while more difficult, avoids any confrontation with guards and locks. The sally port is locked, barred, and guarded, as is the alleyway past the baron's stables. If I cannot draw the guards away…"

Torlin left the fate of the guards up to Thalweg's imagination.

"I can climb a wall", stated the Barron, stepping forward and falling over. The thief caught him before he crashed to the ground.

"No", said Torlin. "You cannot. The sally port it is."

The comrades slowly walked down the dimly lit prison hallway to the guard room where the old jail keeper lay slumped in a chair.

"Did you have to kill him", asked Thalweg? "Crazy old coot, but decent."

"Fear not mi'lord. He only sleeps." A snore confirmed Torlin's statement. The two men made slow but steady progress through the dark, empty, lower levels of Net's keep. At the base of a steep stone stair case Torlin leaned the Baron against a wall.

"Stay here. I will check above."

* * *

'Trissa had completed her last 'errand'. Walking around Net in chain mail and sporting a tightly woven Net tabard was hot and heavy work. Goddess, but her feet were sore! And she still had to cross half of Net to reach her final destination, where she assumed, she was to be re-united with Luthor and Soranyll. Damn that little thief! Why couldn't she have used a horse? Torlin had said something about uniforms and rank, chances of being noticed or questioned, especially as night approached. She really had not bothered to listen to much of it. She wished now she had.

The Paladin-elect stopped at an intersection of a main thoroughfare and an alley. According to Torlin's scribbled map, which she could barely read as night was falling and there were few torches about, she was to go east, then turn north and work her way diagonally north-west. It looked like she was going to backtrack a bit. 'Trissa surveyed the alley. It led north. She should be able to save time, and more importantly shorten the distance her poor feet had to walk, if she took a short-cut.

The alleyway was dark, rubbish-covered, and smelled strongly of urine. Unlike the main streets of Net, which were flagged or paved with stones or cobbles, the alley had a hard earthen floor that was potted and rutted. The poor footing, coupled with dim light, did not allow for much speed. She slowly picked her way around heaps of trash, and a few sleeping bodies. 'Trissa realized that, while she would shorten the length of her walk, no time was going to be saved.

The alley narrowed as she approached a well-lit cross street. 'Trissa was a few yards from the end of the alley when two figures jumped out of the dark and barred her way.

"Oi, a soldier", observed one of the shadowy figures. "Well my lad, could ya spare a few coins? Not much work 'round Net unless ya wanna dig trenches for the army. An' we don'ts. Do we, Moss?"

"Nope", replied the second shadow, on her left. "We do not, Spit."

"So's, in case yer not feelin' generous, my lad, we jest wanna ya to know, we'll take the coin anyway. An' that is a lot harder. On you!"

'Trissa stood with arms crossed, listening to the threats of the two would-be robbers. A good place for an ambush, she opined, as a passage from the _Annals of Warfare_, regarding use of terrain, came to her mind. As a novice follower of the Red Knight, she had studied tactics and strategies, but they had always been presented in the context of the engagement of opposing armed forces. She belatedly realized that those same lessons could also be applied to cities and much smaller altercations.

"You would threaten one of Net's protectors? Be off with you, scoundrels", she snarled.

"Oi, Oi. Well it's a lass, then? Light's not good here, but ya soun' pretty! Care to share a noggin or a pint?"

"Thank you, no. I must be about my duties", was 'Trissa's reply. She could not make out many details of her assailants, as the light was behind the two men, but she thought she saw the glint of a blade in the hand of one of them. What did the _Annals_ say of ambuscades? 'W_here the enemy controls the ground, retreat is an honourable option for the warrior.' _She turned her head slightly, catching movement behind her. Ah, what was the rest of that passage? _However, the rear-guard must always be alert to ensnarement from behind.'_

"Sure, sure. A soldier's got 'is duties", responded the one addressed as Spit. "Go right ahead, girl."

Spit moved aside, slightly.

"But first, it's either coin or quiff. Thems yer only two choices, an' if ya don't have enough coin, then it'll be both!"

"Then, here's my coin", replied the Paladin-Elect, dropping her arms to her side and placing her right hand on her left hip, as if reaching for a purse.

'Trissa stepped forward, her closed, mailed, right fist swinging in a fast arc that ended at Spit's head. The blow rocked the unsuspecting mugger back against the alley wall. Moss uttered an oath and started towards the girl, raising a thick wooden peg above his head. His intention was to strike the impudent soldier across the head, stunning or killing her. Then he'd strip the corpse. She'd not be the first soldier to meet an undignified end in one of Net's alleys.

Unarmed combat was a part of any paladin's training. So, the Paladin-Elect of Zelia, Exarch to the Red Knight, did not wait for the blow to fall. She met Moss in mid-charge, bringing her knee up fast and hard to the man's groin. His thick trousers and leather apron did little to reduce the severity of the blow.

Moss cried out in pain, doubling over. 'Trissa pulled Moss even closer, trying to spin him to her left, blocking the charge that she suspected was coming from behind her. Someone crashed into them, knocking Moss to the ground and sending 'Trissa stumbling out of the alley and onto the street. She scrambled to her feet and jumped to the left, putting a corner between her and her three assailants.

The third man, the one who had charged from behind, came after her. Rounding the corner his throat was met by a stiff armoured forearm. He dropped to the street, gasping for breath.

Tonight, 'Trissa was her goddess' instrument of Justice. Leaving two groaning men lying on the ground and a third leaning against a wall nursing a frightful headache, she quickly left the area, following Torlin's map to her destination, without further misadventure.

* * *

Torlin was gone only a moment. Returning he found the Baron slumped on the floor, a glassy look to his eyes. Without hesitation the thief drew back his hand and forcefully slapped the side of Thalweg's head.

The Baron shook himself and rose with assistance from the thief.

"That hurt."

"You'll get over it."

The stairs led to a large kitchen. Fires burned in a few hearths, casting warmth and a poor light. The door to the garden was barred but not locked. Stepping out into the fresher air of the keep's vegetable garden, the two men stood quietly in shadow under a trellis that sheltered the doorway.

Thalweg turned his gaze to a flowering vine hanging from the trellis. It smelled nice. He plucked a blossom and absently put it in his mouth.

Shaking his head, Torlin turned from the Baron and surveyed the yard and surrounding walls. The sally port, a small, sturdy wooden gate at the far end of the gardens, had originally been used by armed parties of defenders to 'sally forth' and engage an attacking force's flank. But Net had grown over the century since that gate had been constructed. The keep's walls had been pushed outwards, merging with the city's new wall. The gate, now mostly unused, was considered part of the inner defensive works. It now led to the keep's stables.

The garden was mostly in shadow. Only a few torches along the wall, one of them beside the gate, offering light. A small, doorless shed, really more of a lean-to, sat against the wall next to the gate. That was where the guard would be stationed, surmised the thief.

Torlin stepped out from under the trellis and snaked across the gardens, staying in the darkest patches of shadow. He stopped when he heard a soft jingle of metal. He squatted down in the cover of some berry-sporting shrubs and surveyed the wall. A single roving guard slowly walked along the top of the fifteen-foot-high stone wall. A short parapet on the garden side of the wall extended to a height of about mid-thigh. Torlin knew from his surveillance of the other night that the parapet on the far side of the wall was about chest height.

The guard walked slowly along his appointed course, finally disappearing behind the curved wall of the keep's bastion. Torlin moved quietly up to the side of the shed, drawing a long dagger from his belt.

* * *

Follus shifted in the rickety chair, keeping his gaze on the sally port gate. He should be standing by the gate, spear in hand, not sitting in a shed. But there was little chance his captain would come check on him as his post was not considered vital. No enemy would be sneaking through half the city of Net, and the Baron's stables, to attack this little gate.

It was almost time to get up and take a walk around the garden. Check a few doors, return to the gate, watch, repeat. Tedious. His fellow guardsmen often laughed at him for at first accepting, and then requesting, the boring posting. Follus smiled. They did not know just how productive his walks around the garden in dead of night could be. Vegetables and fruits, fallen or left on the ground, some tossed onto the compost heap, all in decent shape and quite edible, filled a sack at the end of most nights. When his shift was over and day dawned, he'd return home with onions, carrots, potatoes, and sometimes fruit. The Baron's table never missed the scraps he took. But the pilfered food greatly supplemented his meagre guard's pay. And with a new mouth to feed soon arriving, he needed to keep this post.

Let others catch burglars, or fend off raiders, or smite the barons' enemies. He had a family to care for.

* * *

Returning to the trellised doorway, Torlin retrieved Thalweg, steered him across the gardens to the small gate, and bade him sit down against the side of the lean-to. Torlin doused the torch that was set in the wall beside the gate. While its light would have been beneficial for his work, he did not need it. Better to work in the dark and remain unseen by patrolling guards, or by chance observation from a somnambulant lackey.

Torlin pulled out his tools and set to work on the lock, operating mostly by touch. It was a good lock, well maintained as were most things in Net. Little or no rust. It made his job easier. With the lock now open, the thief helped the Baron stand and motioned to him that he should assist Torlin in removing the two large, heavy oak bars that secured the gate.

With the bars out of the way, Torlin quietly drew back the bolt and eased the door open a crack. No creaking of hinges, no shouts from guards. Good so far. He could smell horses and hay. Pulling the door wider he poked his head into the stable yard. Except for the nickering and shuffling of horses, all was quiet.

He stepped back into the garden and relit the torch, using a striker from his pouch. He then took the swaying, and oddly silent Baron, by the hand and led him through the gate into the stable yard. Closing the gate behind them, the two men stood close against it, waiting silently.

Within the space of several slow breaths Torlin heard again the soft jingle of metal accoutrements. Light from the bastion behind them and above the garden cast a faint shadow of the wall and parapets onto the stable yard's earthen ground. Signaling to Thalweg, Torlin pointed to the shadow of a guardsman slowly pacing along the top of the wall. The two men's eyes followed the shadow as it passed over their position and carried on, exiting the area the same way as the previous guard.

Still leading Thalweg by the hand, Torlin crossed the yard to the small smithy located at its far end. The smithy was open to the stable yard and he could see the forge glowing hot inside it. A stable hand would be responsible to see that it did not cool too much overnight. No one needing a horse shod in the morning wanted to wait on a cold forge.

A small wooden door at the far side of the smithy was barred and chained.

"Through there and down an alleyway, and we are out of Net's keep", Torlin informed Thalweg.

"I thought there'd be more guards," Thalweg whispered.

"There will be. Two or three at a barricade at the far end of this alley. Prepare yourself."

Torlin set about removing the bars and chains as quietly as he could. By the dim light of the forge Thalweg searched the smithy for a weapon.

Damn - no swords, no maces, not even daggers. The smithy was totally dedicated to matters equine. Thalweg picked up the smith's hammer from atop an anvil. It would have to do.

Torlin removed the last of the obstructions on the door. He slowly opened it with only a minimum of noise from the hinges. Gesturing to Thalweg, the thief stepped out into the dark alleyway, the Baron two steps behind him.

A voice spoke from the darkness.

"Baron Thalweg. Whatever are you doing here?"


	11. Master Gilner

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**Chapter 11 – Master Gilner**

**B**oth Torlin and Thalweg jumped upon hearing the voice. The thief whirled around, crouching low, one hand reaching for a throwing knife, the other drawing his long, wicked looking poniard. Thalweg drew himself up and raised the hammer, glowering into the darkness.

"Be at rest", said the voice. "It is I, Soranyll."

The elven Lore–Master stepped out from the alley's deepest shadows into a patch of almost light.

"This is not the south side of the keep's tower, Torlin. Or did I misunderstand your instruction?"

Torlin relaxed, swearing a mild oath. "You did not misunderstand, elf. Circumstances changed our path. But how did you know to be here? And what of the guards at the alley mouth", he whispered, indicating the far end of the gloomy alleyway in which they stood?

"Are you familiar with the spell, '_Mage's Eye'_? No? It allows me to see or follow someone at a distance. I had cast it while waiting for you and Luthor to escape the tower. I was curious to watch your thievery. I searched the keep's lower levels and found you. As you seemed to be heading away from the tower's south side and our rendezvous, I judged you needed to find another way out. I only just arrived in this alley when I heard movement at the door of this structure."

"And the guards", Thalweg asked?

"Sleeping"' answered the elf. "A simple spell. You look terrible, Luthor."

"I'd hate to look good, feeling as poorly as I do."

"Thalweg will never make it to the meeting place in his condition. Not in any decent amount of time, anyway", stated the thief. "It is almost midnight. We need to move fast."

"Why don't we have horses waiting", asked Thalweg?

"Iron shod hooves on cobblestones, in the middle of the night? Far too noisy. We would have attracted much less attention on foot. Besides, I know a few shortcuts horses could not use. But, I didn't expect you to be hurt", responded Torlin. "Maybe we can borrow some horses from the Baron of Net?"

"No", stated Thalweg. "Stable hands are up and about at odd hours. We're lucky to have not run into one. They'd notice missing mounts. I can walk."

A bell began to ring, signaling the midnight hour. Torlin addressed the elf.

"Can you heal him?" Torlin indicated Thalweg with a toss of his head.

Soranyll shook his head. "No. But I can speed our passage. Tell me where we need to go."

"The large house next to the shed where I instructed you to leave our mounts and supplies."

The elf nodded and began casting. Fluid, graceful hand motions and a faint murmuring set the spell in motion.

"It is called _'Speedy Passage'_, and once I touch your shoulders you must immediately link hands with me. We will travel quickly, quietly, and mostly unseen. It can be … unsettling, if you are not familiar with Ethereal travel. Do not let go! Now!"

The city of Net seemed to pass before Torlin's eyes in a blur. Odd scenes and sounds stood out. Guards slumped over, asleep in the alleyway; a bell rang; he seemed to pass through a horse and cart that stood in their way; two figures locked in an embrace in a dark doorway, turned to look at them, started, pointed, and yelled out; a bell rang, again. He felt as if he was walking in a dream, taking leisurely, giant steps. He moved slowly, but everything passed by in a fast blur.

There was as sudden feeling of icy cold air washing over him, and he was standing outside a house near the north gate, in a well-to-do neighbourhood, over a mile from Net's keep. Luthor was beside him, on his knees, retching. A bell rang one last time. Midnight had passed. They had crossed the city of Net before its tower bell had completed ringing the hour.

Thief and mage bent down, each grasping one of Thalweg's arms, and pulled the Baron upright.

"Let's get him inside. Side door, to the right," directed Torlin. "The Paladin should be here."

* * *

'Trissa closed the door that led to the sitting room, leaving Thalweg resting, and she hoped, healing. She glowered at Torlin, who was seated at the large table in the warm kitchen.

"You could not have gotten to him before he was tortured", she asked, accusingly? "I have limited healing spells. I am a Paladin, not a cleric!"

"Do what you can for him", Torlin ordered, ignoring her complaint. "He will need to be able to ride. A new day soon dawns. Whatever prayers you make to your goddess, ask for healing. And before sunrise! We need nothing else right now."

With that dismissal, Torlin turned his attention back to the two youngsters seated before him.

"As I was saying, he", Torlin pointed to Soranyll, who was leaning against a counter, "Is an elf. The angry lady is our companion, who tends to the wounded man you saw us bring in to your Master's house. We are aiding the elf on a quest."

The children, a boy and girl of between nine and twelve years of age, and similar enough in looks to be brother and sister, looked wide-eyed at the mage. Soranyll, with his hood down, crossed arms, silver hair, bright eyes, and stern gaze directed at the children, made an imposing sight.

"Now, you have both behaved very well these last few days, and as promised, I have brought a powerful elven mage and a beautiful lady warrior to visit you. You both know your duties. Please ready our horses and gear."

The two children obediently jumped to their feet and scurried out the door that led to the manor house's yard and small stable, but not before casting more awed looks at the elf and paladin.

"How did you bewitch them", asked the Mage?

"What threats did you use to gain their cooperation", demanded the Paladin?

Torlin shook his head. "They are orphans in service to their uncle, a greedy, rapacious bugger named Gilner. This is his home. Master Gilner owns a merchant house, has no other family, few friends, and in his business dealings steals from both the Baron of Net and the City Council."

Torlin pointed to a pile of parchment, quills and ink at the end of the table. "He was also in the process of selling those two children, his own blood, in to servitude at an establishment, whose offerings of a sensual variety are best not described in front of Lady Lutrissa."

"What monster would do such a thing", queried the Paladin?

Torlin and Soranyll both assumed she was referring to the sale of flesh, and not corrupt mercantile practices against Net's elite. Torlin pointed to a small door at the east end of the kitchen.

"Ask him, yourself."

Soranyll strode over to the scullery door and pulled it open. Craning her neck, 'Trissa could see an older human male, in fine but rumpled clothes, tied to a heavy chair. He was gagged, disheveled, and appeared to have been on the wrong end of a beating. The man looked up hopefully at the elf.

"I needed a place from which to work", said Torlin. "And sufficient gold to purchase supplies and pay bribes. Master Gilner was loathe to assist me. I eventually convinced him to tell me where he kept his coin. I only later discovered his niece and nephew, chained up in their room. Release from his clutches, some sweets, and a promise to introduce them to two of the Baronies' greatest adventurers, won them over."

The look of hope in Master Gilner's eyes dimmed as Torlin recited his story. The dark looks he got from the elf and the tall woman killed any further hope of liberation.

"Soranyll. If you could 'assist' the children? Gilner has kept them house-bound for a long time. They have never met an elf. And, Lady Lutrissa? I very much doubt that Gilner will welcome his young relatives back into his employ…"

'Trissa cut off the thief in mid-sentence. "I shall write a letter to the Hardhar at the Temple. The children will be cared for."

"Thank you", replied Torlin.

The Paladin was about to offer a short, sharp retort, but instead turned and gathered writing supplies from next to the pile of papers on the table.

Soranyll shut the scullery door, turning to 'Trissa and holding out his hand. She gave him a sour look.

"My wager was that the little thief could not get Luthor out of the keep without our assistance. You helped him", stated 'Trissa, offering the elf a defiant look.

"They were already out of the keep when I arrived", stated Soranyll. "I only assisted their travel here. But as you seem reluctant to pay out, shall we further the bet?"

"Aye. Double, says we do not get out of Net without shedding blood!"

"Done!" Soranyll smiled at 'Trissa, winkled at Torlin, and left the house in search of the children.

Torlin pushed his chair back, rose from the table, and entered the sitting room. Thalweg was stretched out on a rug by the fireplace. Blankets covered him. His wounds had been cleaned and treated, and his right eye was looking better. He appeared to be asleep. The thief knelt by the Baron and straightened a blanket, pulling it up and tucking it under the sleeping man.

From the kitchen doorway, 'Trissa silently watched the thief adjust Luthor's bedding. She returned to the table and her letter. Lady Lutrissa Betha Cassender was puzzled. She was having a hard time reconciling the callous, drunken, thief with this man who cared for the fate of children and tended a sick friend.

In the sitting room, Torlin leaned down to whisper in Thalweg's ear.

"I'll get you out of Net, as promised, old friend. After which, you had better tell me what this is all about, or I will slit your barbarian throat!"

* * *

Four Net cavalrymen sat astride their mounts in a dark alley near the City's north gate. Two spare horses were in tow, carrying only a modest amount of gear. One did not treat riding mounts as pack horses.

The tall, lithe rider in the front turned to the large man behind him and asked, "Isn't this how we first got in our current dilemma? Impersonating Net soldiers?"

The large man nodded. "Indeed Soranyll. I wonder how wise it is to try the same trick again."

Torlin, last in line, shook his head in exasperation at Thalweg. "If any of you had an ounce of sense, we would not be on this idiotic quest, never mind stuck in Net. Once again, we are not simply impersonating soldiers. We have decently forged papers, and I have spent a large sum of gold, courtesy of Master Gilner, making sure that the squad guarding this gate are less than attentive to their duties. We will leave Net, unchallenged."

"Tell us again how you did that," ordered the Paladin.

Torlin sighed and repeated his scheme for the third time that night.

"The squad manning this gate went drinking, as they do most mornings after their shift of gate watching. A wealthy and generous citizen of Net, one 'Master Gilner', bought them many rounds. Most of the men drank far too much and have had a very uncomfortable shift tonight. They will not be at their best. Their Captain is not present tonight, being occupied with one of the more sought after courtesans of Net. She'd not even look at a mere captain for anything less than fifty gold pieces. But yesterday, several letters were apparently traded between the captain and the courtesan. She will think the gold she received late this afternoon, delivered by you, Soranyll, was from the captain. He thinks she is smitten with him, having seen him at a martial parade last week. Her letters to him, delivered by you, Lady Lutrissa, promise him such a night of pleasure that few mortals have ever experienced, much less survived. The Captain will not be at his post, but in another's bed, until past dawn."

"I was traipsing about Net delivering love-letters?" 'Trissa's scowl could not be seen in the dark, but the scorn in her voice was apparent.

"And I carried payment for a romantic liaison?" The elf sounded amused.

"No offence, but those were tasks within your capabilities. Breaking into Net's keep, twice, was not", said Torlin. "Now, as long as the captain and the courtesan do not talk about the specifics of how they came to be together, all will be well. The second-in-command at the gate is a young, inexperienced lieutenant. Shortly, there will be some confusion at that gate. I promise, we will leave Net unchallenged."

The Paladin shook her head. "It seems unnecessarily complex. And surprisingly bloodless, for you. Why not just pay off the Captain, or slit his throat?"

Thalweg answered for Torlin. "Inducement of guards can work in normal times, but with Net on a war footing, it'd be a death-sentence to be caught accepting a bribe. As for missing a shift at his post, the captain will make sure that no one other than his lieutenant knows where he is."

"Dereliction of duty for a dalliance with a doxy? Males are pathetic."

"Ahem."

"Oh. My apologies Lord Soranyll. Human males."

"As for throat slitting, a missing or dead officer would have everyone on edge. This is the best way to get us, our horses, and our gear out of Net", said Torlin. "Trust me."

The Paladin looked askance at the thief. "You ask us to trust you, but you sit last in line. A position from which it is easiest to flee any challenge from the soldiers guarding the gate."

Thalweg snickered. "You are learning, girl."

"So, how is this different? They are still looking for three or four persons dressed as soldiers."

"Yes", replied Torlin to the Paladin-Elect. "But not for over a score mounted men reporting for duty. And remember, if separated, get to Crows Crossroads."

Soranyll shushed his party. He could hear horses approaching from the south. Over a dozen mounted men, some trailing extra mounts, rode by at an ambling gait. The elf, glamoured to appear human, moved out of the alley and followed, his three companions close behind.

* * *

"What? How can that be", asked the young subaltern? He grabbed the tally sheet from the even younger corporal.

The lieutenant stepped out of the gate house, and in the half-dawn light counted the troop before him. Twenty. How by the gods did he get an extra eight men turning up? After a few questions directed to the mounted men before him, he thought he had the answer. Each squad of four men had received orders to report to the north gate, exit the city, and patrol the surrounding country side. A few of the men complained that they usually departed from the east or west gate.

Some idiot had sent the same orders to five squads, not three! What was he supposed to do with eight extra men?

Well, there was an easy fix to this! No need to bother the Captain. He had been told the punishment for interrupting his superior's romance. The lieutenant instructed four of the riders to swing east after they left the city, and another four to swing west. They would meet up with other troops assigned to those areas, and another officer could handle matters from there!

* * *

Lady Luck had got them out of the City of Net, but she turned capricious at the last moment. Thalweg and 'Trissa and the two extra mounts were among the eight soldiers directed to the north, Soranyll was sent east, and Torlin, west. In the early morning light, with three soldiers riding close, and more Net soldiery manning the walls behind them, the elf and the thief had no choice but to continue riding in the wrong direction, and away from the Baron and the Paladin.


	12. Mercenaries and Mercy

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**Chapter 12 – Mercenaries and Mercy**

'**T**rissa kept her horse close to Luthor's. The Baron looked only slightly the worse from his ordeal in Net, but she knew his injuries needed much more healing. He swayed a bit in his saddle. She was about to curse Torlin again, when she realized that he had gotten them out of Net, as promised. From the absurdly simple to the bizarrely complex, the little thief always had a plan. Now, she needed one. How to slip away from ten mounted Net soldiers? From the glazed look on Luthor's face, she doubted that she'd get much help from him. With Soranyll and Torlin gone, it would be up to her to get them to their next meeting point, Crows Crossroads, which was a day's ride to the north. She wondered how far from the city of Net her patrol would ride?

* * *

Soranyll deduced from the shouted instructions of his squad leader, that they were to patrol to the northeast, and over the course of the day sweep around to the east, returning to the city by its eastern gate. With a press of his knee to his horse's side, the elf slightly increased his distance from the Net troopers. Slowly, imperceptibly, he bore to his left. At some point he would have to veer away from the group and turn north. The countryside was typical of Net, rolling hills covered in grain crops, now mostly harvested, cut by canals and roads. Some of the steeper hills and gullies had been left forested. He would wait until they passed by one of those before slipping away.

* * *

Torlin's squad was riding northwesterly at a leisurely pace. Fifty yards separated each rider from his neighbour. The thief was second from the right. There were two soldiers between him and his desired path. He would have to wait before making a break northward.

By mid-morning their pace had slowed. Torlin was having trouble keeping his light lance at a resting position. Though tethered, it kept swinging against his right elbow. His butt was asleep. He was a decent rider, but no cavalryman.

A shrill whistle from the squad leader caught his attention. He had dismounted and was waving his men over to him. Damn! As much as Torlin wanted a break, he had no desire to be in close company to Net soldiers.

The thief walked his horse over to the small knoll on which the squad leader had stopped. Nodding to the man, Torlin dismounted and was soon joined by the remaining two riders. The squad leader, a corporal, directed the last man to arrive to take the horses down the slope to a stream that wound past the knoll, and water them. He then ordered the other soldier to go fill the squad's water skins and canteens

"You from the east gate", asked the squad leader of Torlin? "You don't look familiar."

"Nah. New recruit. I've worked the south gate, but been in the stables lately", was Torlin's lie.

"Ah! Punishment detail! Ya, you look like trouble. Stay alert, ride smart and keep your eyes open. Give me any trouble and it is back to the stables for you. Understand?"

Torlin nodded and turned away, watching for the two Net soldiers to return with their horses and water. He stiffened as he heard the sound of a sword being drawn from its sheath. He cast what he hoped was a casual glance back at the corporal. The man was closely examining his weapon. A whetstone and polishing cloth were in his hands. The thief relaxed and surveyed the surrounding land, looking for a gulch or copse from where he might steal away.

The two soldiers returned from the stream, and the corporal ordered them all to mount and resume riding in their assigned positions. Grumbling, the men complied. Torlin's chance to leave his squad would have to come later.

* * *

It was mid-day and 'Trissa's squad had reached the northern limit of their patrol. In twos and threes the dozen troopers had zig-zagged over the country side, stopping to talk to farmers and travelers. They had mostly avoided Net's fine roads. The purpose of the patrol was to check out the surrounding lands for any sign of an enemy incursion. While none of Net's neighbours had declared for any contender for the crown that did not mean that a baron wouldn't be tempted to send out forces to test another ruler's war readiness.

The squad leader, a sergeant, sounded his horn, calling his troopers to him. As they approached the high dry, open hill on which he sat astride a tired looking roan, he waved them back the way they had come.

"Half-mile back", he yelled! "Meal stop at that last creek!"

"Good decision", noted Thalweg to 'Trissa. "Some shade, clean water. He's looking out for his men and horses."

"That gives me an idea", responded the Paladin.

'Trissa slipped of her horse and started examining the animal's legs. The sergeant rode up, stopped, and asked if there were a problem.

"My horse is favouring her left leg. Just checking her out", 'Trissa stated matter-of-factly. She looked up at Thalweg. "You. Give me hand. She is shy about having her legs touched."

Thalweg nodded and eased himself out of his saddle.

The sergeant watched for moment, then shrugging, told 'Trissa and Thalweg to catch up to him as soon as they could. Thalweg watched the man head south to join the rest of his troop.

"Good ploy, 'Trissa. We keep working on your horse until he is over that hillock. Okay, he's gone. You will have to help me mount. I am still not feeling well."

'Trissa assisted Thalweg, again silently cursing Torlin for his delay in rescuing the Baron. But it was something else that was really bothering her. Whether or not it was the thief's fault, a member of her party was injured and she was not strong enough, wise enough, or talented enough, to heal him. The realization of her inadequacies, while intensely unpleasant, had to be addressed.

"You need rest and better healing than I can offer. I am sorry mi'lord. You should have a Cleric of a true faith with you, not a Paladin–Elect", she said, contritely.

"Humility? From a Cassender?" Thalweg regarded the Paladin-Elect. "Know this. When in Capitol, I solicited for a Tempuran cleric to accompany me, preferably a Steel Fang. I was stunned when I was told by Tempus' High Priest himself that I was to take a novice paladin of his Exarch, the Red Knight! I have never had cause to contest or complain against whatever the Lord of Battles has sent my way, whether it be aid or adversity. I still have no complaint. Shall we go?"

'Trissa, eyes shining, nodded and mounted her steed. Side by side, they rode north and away from their former squad, hoping to be miles gone before their absence was noted.

* * *

Soranyll was lost. Not truly lost, he reasoned. He was in the Barony of Net, northeast of the City of Net, surrounded by unending fields of golden grains, many harvested. There was that sameness to the landscape that defined Net. He found it annoying. There should be a main road somewhere nearby that would take him to Crows Crossroads, but he could not find it.

He had lost sight of his squad some time ago. No one had come in pursuit. The day was getting old, shadows were lengthening, and the morning's gentle breeze was now stronger and noticeably cooler. There was no need to hold his glamouring spell in place any longer, he reasoned. With a thought it was dismissed and in place of an armoured, sword-carrying, human soldier in Net uniform, stood a tall elven mage dressed in greens and greys, wearing a blue cloak, and carrying a short staff.

The cloak he wore was properly called a _cloak of elemental protection_, but one of his sons, when he was centuries younger, had called it a 'snuggle cloak'. Soranyll smiled at the memory, and invoked the power of the _snuggle cloak_, warming himself against the breeze and the cooling of the day.

Having rested both himself and his horse long enough, he climbed back up in the saddle and continued his trek.

* * *

After finally evading his squad, Torlin was on his way to Crows Crossroads. He had traveled much farther west than was desirable. There would be hard riding ahead to make up time and ground. At least his horse was game. The animal had amazing stamina.

Late in the day and still disguised as a Net soldier, but no longer a lancer, he'd discarded the annoying weapon, he approached two farmers loading hay onto a wagon. They had been friendly fellows, eager to share a bit of gossip and a pull from the bottle of spirits that Torlin had produced from his saddle bag. From them he learned that a large force of Net soldiers had encamped at the Crossroads.

He bade the farmers a good day, and headed north, staying west of, and by-passing, Crows Crossroads. The town of Silver Tree was the next likely place where he might catch up to Thalweg. A long, two day ride to get answers. And if Thalweg was not there? Well, the Northern Marches were as good a place as any in the Baronies for a wanted ex-Master thief to hide out.

* * *

"Not good", observed 'Trissa, of the many tents spread out on the outskirts of the small village of Crow Crossroads.

Thalweg looked up, the Paladin's comment catching him just as he was dozing off. Sleeping in his saddle was a trick he had mastered long ago.

"Oh, crap", the Baron muttered. "Good thing we're still in Net uniforms. Let's keep riding north. Soranyll has sense enough to know to catch us at Silver Tree."

"Aren't the moors more to the west? I mean, should not we be heading more westward to reach the Bakklar Moor?"

"West and north", answered the Baron. "But Silver Tree is a necessary stop. I made plans to have a half-dozen men waiting there for us. Sell-swords."

'Trissa looked quickly at Thalweg, her brow furrowed. "Reinforcements? Why didn't you say so in Capitol? I was wondering how the four of us would defeat a demon. I knew you and Soranyll had a plan. But… does Torlin know?"

"No. He did not need to. He will only be with us for a few days' travel after Silver Tree. There is a small job I need him to do. After that we will not see the thief again, Lutrissa. Be happy! You will soon be rid of him!" 

* * *

The elven mage never found Crow Crossroads, so he had continued north, knowing that Silver Tree was where he would most likely catch up to his party. He had ridden for three long days after leaving Net, sleeping in hedgerows or trees.

North of Net was the small Barony of Moor, through which he had ridden unmolested in a day. He was now on the eastern edge of the Moorlands, just south of the Northern Marches. Silver Tree, the Marches _de facto_ capitol, was still a half day's ride away.

Soranyll crested a rocky tor and paused to rest his horse. Looking down into the small grassy valley below him he saw that, with the exception a meadow some four or five-score yards in length at the foot of the hill he rested on, the ground was mostly covered by large, grey-white boulders, some as big as a small house.

At the eastern edge of the open grassed area were two riders sitting astride their mounts. They were each leading a pack horse. The riders faced about a dozen or more, rough looking, heavily armed, but lightly armoured, mounted warriors, who occupied the western part of the lea. The larger groups' mismatched weapons and clothing suggested more the bandit than a baronial soldier.

The elf quickly cast _Eagle Eye_, and confirmed that the tall rider suited in red chainmail at the western end of the meadow was Luthor Thalweg. The smaller armoured figure next to him was the Paladin. He could not see Torlin. It looked like Thalweg and one of the other riders were conversing by shouting across the meadow at each other. The wind at the hilltop carried their words away; even a spell such as _Owl's Ear_ would not help the mage hear what was being said.

Soranyll let out a shout, hoping to catch Luthor's attention, and began moving down the rock-strewn hillside, angling towards his companions.

* * *

Leading his horse through a boulder field, Torlin paused, cocking his head. Were those voices to his right? He pulled his crossbow and quiver from the saddle horn, and leaving his horse, crept toward the sounds. Peering out from between two large grey-white boulders, he saw a group of a dozen or so nasty looking characters. The group consisted mostly of men but there were a few women present. All were well-armed, sitting on horseback, and talking among themselves, pointing ahead of them and to Torlin's right. He could not see what interested them. Too many boulders were in the way. Whatever it was, he hoped it was of sufficient interest to draw them away so that he could continue on the road to Silver Tree.

Movement on the small hill overlooking the valley\ and the boulder field in which he was hiding, took Torlin's attention away from the bandits. The thief saw a mounted figure in a blue cloak wending its way down the hill's rocky slope. Was that Soranyll? The mage must have seen the group of desperadoes at the valley bottom. Where was the elf going?

* * *

Thalweg and 'Trissa eyed the motley crew at the far end of the meadow with unease. The Marches had always been wildlands, attracting both the adventurous and the less than virtuous. Thalweg had heard that the new Marshall had stamped out most of the banditry, but his forces could not be everywhere. Both the Northern and Western Marches were notoriously under-manned and under-funded by both Royal Council's and past Kings.

"Who are they", asked the Paladin? "I see a pennant on that spear to the left, but there is not enough breeze to… Oh, wait. It's a… blue sword on a white field. I do not know those arms."

"They are a mercenary group", answered Thalweg. "Little better than bandits. Known, unsurprisingly, as the 'Blue Blades'"

"Oh, the sell-swords you hired"' she asked, brightly?

"No. They are fierce rivals to my mercenaries."

Thalweg lifted his right arm and waved to the Blue Blades. "Permission to pass?" He yelled.

"Granted", was the shouted response from a slender figure on a large, bay horse.

Thalweg and 'Trissa urged their horses forward at a slow walk. The group of riders also started moving forward and towards the Baron, spreading out to cover the meadow.

"Fifteen, no sixteen, of them. They are not going to let us pass, are they?"

"No", said Thalweg. "What do the '_Annals_' say about this situation?"

"Steep hill to one side, boulder field to the other. No reserve force behind their line. At least none that I can see. 'Charge the line', and once through, ride for Silver Tree like hell-hounds are behind us", reasoned the Paladin.

"Agreed", murmured Thalweg as he pulled a steel flask from a small bag attached to his saddle's front horn. He pulled the cork out with his teeth and drank deeply from the flask. He shuddered and tossed the empty container behind him.

"What was that", inquired 'Trissa?

"A tonic that Torlin gave me before we left Net."

"That stuff will as likely kill you, as cure you", she snapped.

"No choice. I am still not fully healed. That's no criticism 'Trissa. Now, aren't you glad I insisted we keep our lances?"

Before she could reply, the figure on the bay horse, now seen to be a woman garbed in dark furs, shouted a command and the line of mounted warriors stopped. At another shout, they drew their weapons. Mostly swords, but a few spears and axes could be seen.

The mercenary leader raised a hand above her head and called out.

"Baron Thalweg! Do not deny it. We have been waiting for you. Surrender, and you live. Fight, and you die!"

Thalweg, followed closely by 'Trissa, increased his horse's pace to a trot.

"Charge the center of their line, together", the Paladin advised.

"No", said Thalweg. "Their strongest men are there. At thirty yards, turn hard left. I'll go right. Breakthrough and keep on riding!"

As soon as the mercenaries saw their prey's pace increase, they too started forward at a matching pace.

At sixty yards from the mercenaries, Thalweg and 'Trissa dropped their pack horses' leads and slipped their light lances from their stirrup holds, positioning the weapons forward. The bandits responded by increasing their speed and giving voice to a battle-cry.

At fifty yards from the mercenary line the two companions charged. Both riders stayed low in their saddles offering as small a target as possible to any possible missiles. They held their lances forward and low, tucked under their right arms as if they were to be used as jousting lances. Their shields stayed slung, Thalweg's across his back, 'Trissa's smaller shield hooked on her saddle horn and lying against the left side of her mount, her left knee tucked under it. The enemy center line slowed, allowing the right and left wings to sweep ahead and turn, closing in on the Baron and his companion.

At thirty yards, 'Trissa broke sharply left, and Thalweg right. At speed, such a turn was dangerous to both horse and rider. Only an expert horseperson would have attempted such a maneuver. Thalweg put his faith in a tried and true mount, and years of experience fighting on horseback. 'Trissa trusted to her Goddess. Neither's faith was found lacking.

The sudden change in the direction of attack caught the bandits by surprise. The several men in the center, braced and ready for a charge, were left facing an empty field; the men on the left and right flanks, expecting the battle to be elsewhere, now faced lances. Horses running at full gallop towards one another cover thirty yards in the space of one quick breath. The Blue Blades had no time to change tactics, direction or speed.

The moment their turns were completed and a half breath away from the mercenaries, Thalweg and 'Trissa both rose in their saddles, quickly changed grips, and thrust their lances overhand into the nearest enemy. A lance, especially a light lance as used by Net cavalry, was not for jousting nor was it meant to be thrown as a javelin. Against a mounted warrior, it was a thrusting weapon.

'Trissa's lance took her opponent full in the chest. His banded leather armour could not save him. The iron-tipped wooden pole skewered him, erupting out his back in a spray of blood. The shock of striking an armoured opponent with a lance, at full gallop, numbed her arm, causing her to lose her grip on the weapon.

No matter, the plan was to ride for Silver Tree and…Something struck her full on the back, throwing her over her horse's withers. The combination of the jolt caused by her lance strike and the blow of a thrown weapon against her, made her lose focus and a firm grip on her reins. Her horse, sensing that her rider was not in control, slowed. In her attempt to regain balance, 'Trissa overcompensated. A stumble by her horse on the less than flat field was all that was needed to send her, spurs over helm, on to the ground. Fate, luck, or her goddess allowed her to land on a patch of grassed loam and not against one of the large boulders a few yards to her left.

Staggering to her feet, winded, aching and dizzy, she fumbled at her belt for her mace. Where was her horse? Her shield? There was a rushing sound in her ears, like a waterfall. Three dark blobs appeared before her. Shaking her head - Zelia, that hurt! – She tried to focus her gaze. The blobs resolved themselves into three mounted men, swords waving, riding fast towards her.

* * *

Standing in his stirrups, knees grasping his horse, Thalweg jabbed his lance into the unguarded neck of a Blue Blade. Without checking to see what damage he had wrought he quickly pulled the lance out, letting the tip swing back. He rotated the lance in his right hand, spinning it about over his head, bringing it back to ready position before his horse had run ten yards further. He cast a quick glance behind him and to his left to see how the Paladin had fared. He could not see her.

Wait! There! Damn, she was unhorsed! He turned his steed towards her. Three ruffians had circled back and were fast approaching 'Trissa. The trio of Blue Blades let out an angry hue and cry. From the corner of his left eye Thalweg could see flames dancing across the meadow. What in the name of Tempus was going on over there? He shifted his attention back to the Paladin. Crouching low in his saddle, he urged his mount on. He was not going to get there in time.

* * *

Soranyll's shout had apparently gone unheard by his companions, but not by several men on the bandit's left wing. Three of them looked up to see a mounted figure in a blue cloak rapidly descending the steep hill.

The elf was racing to catch up to the Baron and Paladin, but his horse's speed was limited by the steep and rocky slope. He saw three of Luthor's foes turn and head towards the foot of the hill in an attempt to cut him off from the flat, grassy meadow.

Looking downslope Soranyll saw that he was unlikely to win the race against the three bandits. So be it. He drew a wand from his belt. Grasping the wand's red leather handle, he pointed its blackened tip downhill and unleashed its power. A rippling wave of fire washed down the slope engulfing the men and their horses. Horrified screams from men and mounts echoed off the hillside. Three piles of smoking ash and bone were all that remained where once six living beings had been.

Reaching the meadow, the elf could see neither Thalweg nor the Paladin. A group of bandits, shouting curses and brandishing weapons, were heading to the meadow's far side. Another, smaller group, including a woman on a large bay, had halted their charge and gathered in the center of the meadow.

Suddenly, the elf's wand was torn from his hand by an unseen force. Soranyll watched it as it spun through the air, landing in the grasses dozens of yards away. He immediately turned his attention to the knot of men at the center of the field. The bandit leader sat astride her bay horse staring intently at Soranyll. Even at a distance of near forty yards, the elf could see a satisfied smile on the woman's face.

Soranyll pulled his short staff out from behind his back, and holding it one-handed, advanced towards the sorceress-bandit. The woman was making exaggerated motions with her arms, directed at Soranyll. 'Wild-magic', judged the elf.

Using a device like a _wand of fire_ while riding was one thing, but spell casting while on horseback required extremely focused concentration. It was a talent most mages never bothered to master. He was impressed by her skill.

A gaseous yellow-green mist formed above the grasses close to the elf, and started flowing towards him. The elf raised his staff and focused his will. Almost immediately, a gust of wind sprang up and pushed the cloud back towards the sorceress and her men.

* * *

The sorceress' arm movements became even more exaggerated. Soranyll could now hear her voice, chanting. The mist slowed, then started moving back, towards him.

The elf reined in his horse and brought his second hand up to his staff. Holding it out before him, he created a mental image of pushing the cloud towards the bandit leader. His arms started to shake. The noxious looking mist slowed its advance, stopped, then started flowing back to the sorceress, once again.

The pace of the sorceress' arm waving and chanting increased, but the cloud continued to move towards her, gaining speed. The men to either side of their leader cast nervous glances at each other. The gas cloud, now several yards wide and ten feet tall, had almost reached them when the sorceress stopped fighting the elf's counter-spell. She rapidly inscribed a circle of purple flame in the air in front of her, and threw a small steel ring through it and onto the ground, quickly invoking a _circle of protection_ around herself and her men. The cloud, pushed by the elf's _wind_ spell, flowed around the now protected group of bandits. One man panicked. Breaking free of the protected area, he attempted to ride to safety. A tendril of the yellow-green mist touched his horse's leg. The animal instantly fell to the ground, taking its rider with it. Enveloped by the mist, the man gasped for breath. Straining to stand, his body racked by spasms, he soon fell back and lay still.

Snarling with rage, the sorceress dropped the _circle of protection_, snatched a snowflake-shaped silver charm from her wrist, and thrust a hand heavenwards. At her command, a blast of icy cold air spewed out from her mouth, aimed directly at the elf.

* * *

Soranyll grabbed the edge of his cloak, drawing it around himself. That action saved him from the worst of the ice blast. His horse was not so fortunate. The animal, now dead, toppled to one side, throwing the elf from its back.

Staggering to his feet, the elf threw back his cloak, shedding a thick layer of frost that covered him. Immediately releasing a spell from a ring he wore, he stretched out an arm. In the space of a half-breath his wand shifted from where it had lay hidden in the grass, appearing in his hand. He turned to face he enemy, wand in one hand, staff in the other, and a pissed-off look on his face.

* * *

The sorceress had been in the middle of casting another spell when she saw the elf reclaim his wand. She dropped the uncompleted incantation and tried again to force the wand from the elf's grasp using her _telekinesis_. Soranyll was prepared for that. He could feel a strong tugging on the wand, but he did not relinquish it. With a curse, the sorceress waved an arm high over her head, releasing something that sparkled in the afternoon sun. Spurring her horse, she turned and rode away from the elven mage. Her remaining two men following. It was a stalemate against the elven wizard; and she had noted that the battle at the far side of the meadow was not going well. Time to leave.

* * *

Soranyll was intrigued by the sparkling, shimmering motes that hung suspended in the air between himself and the retreating sorceress. Giving into his curiosity, he unleashed a fireball from his wand. A searing blast of flame and heat arced towards the dancing motes, then, just shy of where the sorceress had been, ricocheted off of something/nothing, bouncing back at the elf. Wide-eyed and cursing himself for a fool, Soranyll dove to one side, narrowly missing being engulfed by his own fireball. It exploded behind him, sending a searing wave of heat over his legs and arms, which he'd not had time cover with his cloak. He rolled over, swatting at smoldering sections of his clothing. Sitting up he regarded with some pity what was left of his horse, whose charred remains now lay in the center of a black, smoking crater.

During his fight with the sorceress, the elf had been aware of the shouts and cries of battle coming from his right, but now all was oddly quiet. Regaining his feet, he sought out his two companions.

* * *

'Trissa's battle experience was limited, but her training had been thorough. Fighting on foot against a mounted rider could quickly end in death. So, as the '_Annals_' instructed, fight the horse.

The first rider loomed over her, sword raised high.

The Paladin pulled her mace back against her right side.

The Blue Blade leaned forward and to his right, ready to strike.

'Trissa dropped to her knee, her mace coming forward in a two handed backhand strike against the horses front right leg. The rider's sword slashed the air a hand's breadth above her head.

A horse screaming in pain is a terrible, heart-wrenching sound. It jarred 'Trissa, but she managed to keep her focus, her eyes following the rider as he toppled up and over his mount. He did not have the good fortune that 'Trissa had, of landing on the grassy earth. Instead, he sailed through the air, his life ending as his head smashed against a jagged boulder.

The Paladin turned her head away from the now red-washed rock, searching for her other opponents. The second Blue Blade, crouched in his saddle with a spear held low, was charging down on her. At less than two dozen yards distance, the second rider jerked, slumped over to one side and rolled off his horse. The now riderless beast sped past 'Trissa, who missed being trampled by a hand's breadth for a second time that day.

The body of the second rider rolled almost to her feet, coming to rest on his back, spread-eagled, a crossbow bolt sticking out of his chest.

'Trissa looked up in time to see Luthor's charge take the third rider down.

Movement ahead of her. Two more bandits were running at her. She had no idea why they had dismounted, but sometimes, in battle, horses became too spooked to control. A small blessing, for her. She ran her hand along her mace, confirming a Blessing upon it.

Lying in the grass, several yards away, she spotted her shield. She ran to it - the bandits swerving to intercept her. She beat them to it.

Snatching up her shield, 'Trissa spun about catching a Blue Blade's sword with her mace. She completed her spin by driving the edge of the shield into the leather armoured side of the bandit. He yelled out in pain and stumbled back out of her weapons' reach. The other bandit, a large woman, swung a two-handed axe at 'Trissa's groin. The Paladin backpedaled, tripping on the long grass.

Sensing victory, the woman hesitated a mere breath, lining up her strike on the prone Paladin. A quarrel took her in the side. The bandit's banded armour helped deflect much of the bolt's force, but the missile still caused her to stagger, giving the Paladin time to regain her feet.

Better armed and armoured than her opponent, 'Trissa charged her foe.

* * *

'Trissa's opponent dropped, lifeless, to the ground, just as Soranyll ran up to them. Breathing hard, she nodded to the elf, then turned to scan the field. She saw Luthor at the far end of the meadow, sword and shield in hand, riding away from what was now another of the bandit's riderless horses. Soranyll stood over the mercenary that 'Trissa had struck with her shield. The man was holding his side and was having difficulty breathing.

Luthor rode up, a big grin on his face. "Not much of a battle, eh 'Trissa? I see a few of the mercenaries have been struck by cross-bow bolts. Your 'little thief' must be near."

As if in answer to the Baron's guess, the sound of steel on steel rang out from behind one of the larger boulders behind them. Turning their gazes northwards, the companions watched as the sound of combat neared.

Two figures stepped out from behind the house-sized rock. Torlin, dressed in his grey, sleeved, leather jerkin and wielding two long knives, one almost as long as short-sword, was being hard-pressed by a much larger man attired in studded leather armour, and swinging twin hand axes.

"We should help him", stated 'Trissa, hefting her mace.

"Oh, I think he'll be fine", replied the Baron. "Soranyll, you appear to be missing a horse. Take your pick of those left grazing in this field. I am certain that their masters will not mind. Oh, and could you also collect our two pack horses? And put that poor horse out of its misery"? He indicated the animal maimed by 'Trissa, lying on its side and pathetically trying to stand.

"Thank you."

Thalweg turned his attention to the lone surviving bandit, motioning him to stand up.

"I've a few questions for you, laddie", he said sternly.

Behind Thalwg, Torlin's foe was hacking and slashing at a furious rate; the thief parring, blocking, or dodging each blow. But to 'Trissa it looked like Torlin was slowing. Some of the bandit's axe blows were coming very close to the thief.

"Are you sure, Luthor?" Asked the Paladin-Elect, watching the hard-pressed thief.

"Hmm", inquired the Baron, only glancing up briefly at the mêlée near him. "Oh. He is doing alright. Now, to you laddie. How did the Blue Blades know I was going to be here? What price were you to collect for my capture? And to who was I to be delivered?"

"Whom", corrected 'Trissa as she watched Torlin and the mercenary fight to the death, and wincing as a powerful blow sent the thief stumbling backward.

"I have taken an oath", answered the bandit, fiercely!

"I know what a Blue Blade oath is worth", retorted Thalweg. "I'll give you twenty gold. Well?"

"No deal!" Sneered the scruffy man, nervously glancing from Thalweg, to the Paladin, to the skirmish playing out to his left.

"Ah, you're hoping that your fellow brigand will kill my man, then it is the two of you against me and the Paladin? Idiot", snapped the Baron.

"Ain't never seen Bolzo beat", stated the bandit. "An' looks like your elf is having troubles with them horses, so he's no help. Bolzo! Kill 'im quick!" This last order was shouted out to Torlin's foe.

Thalweg, 'Trissa and the bandit all turned to watch the fight.

Bolzo was pressing the thief hard. The prisoner bore a smug look; the Paladin appeared worried. Thalweg watched as Bolzo the Bandit edged closer and closer to Torlin. The bandit's longer arms and weapons gave him an advantage, which he was now giving up by closing with the thief.

"Torlin", roared the Baron. "Quit playing with him, and get over here!"

Thalweg had scarcely finished uttering his order, when the thief struck. Axe swings by the bandit were blocked. Torlin followed up with a swift kick to the bandit's left knee. With one leg momentarily numbed, the bandit was focusing on balance and not defense. Torlin stepped closer, bringing his head up hard against the larger man's chin. The bandit staggered, shook his head, and brought his weapons to a guard position. But it was too late.

Torlin's daggers were a blur. Each struck twice - neck, armpit, then into the chest and side, the last two strikes finding weaknesses in his foe's armour. Torlin stepped back; his opponent slumped to the ground.

The thief limped over to the watching trio.

"Thanks for the assistance, milord", he offered, sarcastically.

"You're slower than you used to be", observed Thalweg.

"Fast is good, buy accuracy is everything", commented Torlin.

Soranyll rode up on his newly acquired horse, two recalcitrant pack horses in tow.

Thalweg eyed the surviving mercenary-bandit. "Fifty gold."

It might have been the four to one odds, or the gold, but the man decided to talk.

"Our Chief, the sorceress, received word from some Southern baron about you", the man indicated Thalweg with a nod.

"An' you", he said, looking at Torlin. "She has lots o' past dealings with the Guild. Don't know how she got on to who ye are, or how to find ye. She has unnatural ways o' learnin' things. There's a price o' a thousand gold on each yer heads. Ah, delivery was to be to some Guild flunky comin' up from the south. Alls I know, I swear."

Soranyll had dismounted and was readjusting his acquired saddle as the bandit told of what he knew. He straightened up, looking over at Thalweg.

"Seems that someone has an idea of what you are up to, Luthor. And a general sense of where we are going. The sorceress, if skilled enough, could communicate with another talent far away."

The elf turned to Torlin. "Would the Guild have such resources?"

"Not likely", replied Torlin. "Magic use in the Guild used to be limited to items used to help a person become a better thief - "_Cloaks of Shadows_", "_Pockets of Holding_", "_Invisibility_" and "_Silence_" spells, that sort of thing. Mages could be hired for big jobs, but we never had any of our own. Things might have changed under Alzalath. The Guild Master"' he explained, seeing a look of confusion on the Paladin's face.

'Whomever that Southern baron is would have the gold to hire mages for scrying work", opined Thalweg. "They've tied me and Torlin together. So, after Vintesse, they just followed us. I'm sure that it is known by some that I was briefly a prisoner in Net. Odd occurrences, rumoured sightings of our party, and piles of bodies such as this", he gestured towards the meadow. "Give our watchers a rough path to follow."

"But how did they get ahead of us", asked the Paladin, with a deep furrow in her brow. "After Net we could have gone anywhere!"

"I suppose", Soranyll pondered, "They would have to set traps in every direction. North, south, east and west?"

"No", answered Torlin. "We'd not likely go south or return east, so it is only west to Luthor's barony or northwards. And, if they have the means to use arcane forces, then they may know of Luthor's and my past… exploits. Perhaps they have uncovered the truth, and know what it is that we are after?"

"How could Leonorall's fate be of any interest to a Southern baron, or the Guild", queried 'Trissa? "Soranyll?"

An uncomfortable silence grew between the elf, the thief and the Baron.

"If they are still guessing as to our final destination, we can stay ahead of them", stated the Baron. "Few mercenaries or sorceresses where we are going."

"Little of anything on Bakklar Moor, according to what I have read", said 'Trissa.

At the mention of their goal, Soranyll stiffened and cast an angry glance at the girl. Torlin shook his head, looked down at the ground and softly swore. Thalweg sighed heavily. The bandit, catching on as to what had happened, cast wide, fear-filled eyes at each of the four adventurers surrounding him.

"What"' asked 'Trissa? "What is wrong? What did I say?"

In a voice tinged with sadness, but no reproof, Thalweg answered. "You just told an enemy where we are going. They'll be on our asses all the way. Could even beat us there."

"How", the Paladin–Elect stammered. "How, could they know? He cannot tell anyone". She said pointing to the bandit. "He is our prisoner!"

"Oh, said Thalweg. "So, we are going to carry him with us? Guard him night and day for two weeks, hoping he does not escape, and send word to our enemies? Or, perhaps you expect us to ask the Marshall of the Northern Marches to hold him a prisoner? Any chance he might tell a cell-mate about us? Do you think it impossible for the Blue Blades to get to him in Silver Tree? Maybe we should accept his word, his oath that he will not tell of us, and let him go? His oath to the Blades was worth fifty gold!"

'Trissa could tell that Thalweg was furious with her, but his words did not show it. They were calmly delivered. Which made it worse.

"Yes. Yes" the bandit cried. "My oath is good. To you, it will be. I swear on my mother!"

'Trissa looked at each of her companions.

Soranyll shook his head. "I am sorry, Lady Lutrissa. I do not know how you can undo this."

"Can you curse him?" Asked the thief, of Soranyll and the Paladin.

Both shook their heads.

The Paladin turned to Thalweg. He gave her a look combining both disappointment and pity. "You know what has to be done", said the Baron. "Your own oath demands it."

The Paladin looked back at the elf and thief, then at the quivering bandit before her.

"I won't say a word ma'am. Truly, I won't. Not to a soul." Even as he said it, he knew he didn't mean it. His violent life had never been about oaths or honour, or anything but gold.

'Trissa hefted her mace in her hand. "This is not fair!"

"No", said Thalweg. "It is not. He would have lived, except for your words."

Dropping her shield she took a two-handed grip on her weapon.

"I am so sorry", she looked at the bandit, tears flooding her eyes. "I will pray for you, if that means anything."

She walked towards him. A side blow to the unprotected head was best. The skull was thinnest there, and there was a chance that the neck would snap as well. It would be quick, she hoped.

The brigand tried moving back and away from his advancing doom, but the thief and elf each held him by an arm, keeping him in his place.

'_Goddess, help me'_, the Paladin prayed silently. '_I am no executioner! Is there no mercy?'_

'Trissa stopped before her victim, wiped the tears from her eyes, and hefted her mace high. The bandit's eyes suddenly widened, then half-closed as he fell back against the thief and elf. Torlin lowered the man's body to the ground, almost gently. He rolled the man over and drew out a long dagger from his back. It had slid through a small gap in the armour, straight through the padded undercloth and into the bandit's heart.

Torlin cleaned off the blade with some grass. Straightening, he sheathed his dagger and looked at the Paladin. Her lips were quivering and the mace, now held low, shook slightly. She said nothing, only nodded at him, then turned and walked away.

Any further comment or actions regarding what had just happened was interrupted by the sound of horns. The martial tones echoed of the hillside and surrounding rocks. Two-score riders entered the meadow from the west. Burnished steel armour, plumed helmets, lances adorned with pennons, and smart formation riding clearly signaled that these warriors were not mere bandits. Their leader, riding a large white horse, made a hand gesture. A column of twenty or so warriors rode off across the meadow to the east, disappearing into the rock-strewn landscape. The other score followed their leader towards Luthor's party.

At another signal from the purported leader, the remaining twenty men surrounded the Baron, Paladin, mage and thief. Lances were lowered and pointed directly at them. Horses stomped and hooved the ground, apparently eager to be let loose on the four strangers.

At a shout from the troop's commander, the men brought their mounts under control. The horses now stood unnaturally still. The commander dismounted in a most elegant manner and approached the four companions. He was tall and slender in build. His steel breastplate and plumed helmet looked to be of the finest quality. Greaves, bracers and a long sword completed the martial aspects of his attire. Unlike his men, who all sported dark riding cloaks, he wore a long white fur-trimmed cape with a scarlet lining. As he came closer Thalweg noticed that the man sported a rapier instead of a cavalry saber or spatha-type blade.

The commander stopped a few yards from the group. He nodded to Thalweg.

"I am the Marshall of the Northern Marches", he stated in a rich, pleasant tenor voice. Removing his helmet he shook out a head of lustrous, wavy black hair.

"Oh, crap", murmured Torlin.

"Try to stay out of sight. It's been years. He may not recognize you", instructed the Baron quietly, through clenched teeth.

"My name is Resplendent Tor", said the Marshall. "We welcome Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent, and his friends, to the Marches. You will be our guests at dinner tonight, in Silver Tree!"

The Marshall stepped forward, and smiling, reached out to grasp Thalweg's hand. "Well met, Luthor."

"Hello Res. It's been a while. Heard you were executed."

"All a misunderstanding. Everything has been forgiven and mostly forgotten." Res eyed each of Luthor's companions, closely. "I see you still associate with unsavory types, the lady knight and the noble elf excluded."

"Good to see you too, Res", replied Torlin.

"Come. We have much to discuss." The Marshall turned to 'Trissa. "Lady, would you care to accompany me at the head of the column? Much less dust."

Not willing to disagree with twenty lances, Thalweg indicated that his companions should mount and follow the Marshall's force.

Torlin, Soranyll and Thalweg were placed about mid-column. 'Trissa sat up front with the charming, eloquent, and very handsome, Resplendent Tor.


	13. Silver Tree

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**Chapter 13 – Silver Tree**

**T**he crowd had quieted during the recital, utterly absorbed in the stirring rendition of the familiar song of battle and loss. The ballad '_King Tristan's Death'_ left more than a few gruff, old warriors with tears in their eyes. As the last note of the recital ended, the performer bowed his head and lowered his lute. The applause was loud, eager, and enthusiastic. The musician smiled and nodded to each side of the assembly hall. He handed his instrument to a waiting page and strode back to his chair at the head table, waving at the crowd, many now standing and still applauding him.

Resplendent Tor, Marshall of the Northern Marches, took his seat, acknowledging the applause once again with a wave of his hand.

Soranyll leaned over to address the Marshall. "Sir, you have obviously trained as a bard. A beautiful rendition of that ballad."

'Trissa, seated in the place of honour to the Marshall's right, had tears in her eyes.

"That was wonderful", she enthused! "Such a sad tale. The King and his thousand men, all slaughtered in defense of the kingdom. But I had not heard that account before. I had no idea an Elven Prince was there, fighting by our king's side. It makes for a more romantic story."

Soranyll nodded. "Many versions leave the detail of the elves out. First time I have heard it was an elven prince. Records say that your King Tristan had an elven bodyguard of a dozen skilled warriors. Ah, any song is bound to have changes creep in over five centuries!"

Res agreed. "As a bard I can tell you that any performer will change the story to make it a better one. A 'thousand men' sounds much more impressive than a few hundred, which I understand it was. And placing the grim deaths of so many against a sunlit day is very effective. But who knows the truth of over five hundred years ago? Some versions of the ballad even claim it was orcs and not a goblin army that the king fought! All we do know is that Tristan died, and the kingdom was saved. We do not even know exactly where the battle took place! Some say Summer Pass, others claim it was the Old Dwarven Mine Road Pass. As no one survived the battle, we know little of what really happened."

"Nearer to the Moorlands"' offered Soranyll. The elf was looking across the audience hall, but his eyes did not seem to be focused on anything.

"Closer to four hundred men, and a dozen elves", he continued. "They slew a thousand goblins. Fought in the fog - a fine, cold mist that chilled you to the bone. The goblin king died that day, slain by Tristan. Only three men survived. Most versions of the story don't tell of that."

'Trissa and Res looked quizzically at the elven mage. He was still staring into the distance, a look of sadness on his face.

"Soranyll? Are you alright?" Asked 'Trissa in a concerned tone.

With an effort the elf shook himself and turned his gaze back to his table companions. "Hmm, oh, fine. Just recalling an elven text about the battle. There's a copy in the Royal Library. You should read it. Though, it is in Elvish. As I said, Marshall, you have a talent. Why are you here in the Northern Marches and not entertaining nobles in Capitol?"

"Ah, good elf, as a young man of only modest means, that was my intention. Sadly, other interests eclipsed what bardic talents I had, resulting in my taking on this 'caretaker' role at the northern extent of the kingdom."

Luthor leaned forward across the table and toward the elf. "What he means", said the Baron, "is that his preference for women of station, married or not, a talent for dueling, and no talent for gambling, got him in trouble. The Northern Marches was the better choice!"

"Shoice of what", inquired the Paladin, slightly slurring her words. She'd drunk several cups of wine that evening.

"My Fate", answered the Marshall. "I was offered the choice of commanding the royal northern forces in this Gods-forsaken wilderness, or debtor's prison, or the hangman's noose."

"Marshalling on the kingdom's frontiers is, in effect, banishment", noted Thalweg. "Despite this fine feast, life is not easy in the North. Is it, Res?""

The Marshall nodded in agreement. "Bitterly cold winters, food supplies often short, near constant banditry, and now goblin raids from the mountains. And of course, there is the constant stream of riff-raff and undesirables from the South".

Whether by coincidence or intention, Res ended his discourse by looking at Torlin, who was seated across from him, and beside Thalweg.

Standing at attention behind Torlin, sword drawn, was a large bald man with a dyspeptic look on his face. All evening he had been nearby, seldom taking his eyes off the thief. Perhaps it was the wine, or simply that curiosity won over manners, but 'Trissa could no longer hold back her questions.

"Why is that man stationed there? You seem to have a dislike for Torlin."

"Dislike? Ha!" Snorted Thalweg.

Res looked down at his wine glass, considering his reply. Shrugging, he looked up at Torlin, then turned to the Paladin. "What you perceive as 'dislike', fair Paladin is merely an adversarial antagonism. You see, Lady, some years ago Torlin was commissioned to kill me. In a fair fight I would win. I am not being immodest, only truthful, when I say I am likely the best swordsman in the Kingdom…"

"Duelist", correct Torlin.

Res waved his hand, dismissing the distinction. "But no Guild member fights fair. So, I prefer to take precautions when he is near."

"Torlin!" The maid glared at the thief. "How could you? Why would you try to kill such a beautiful man? Er, beautiful voice? You claim to be no assassin, yet you would harm our host?"

The Paladin, now evidently tipsy, swayed slightly while resting a hand on the Marshall's arm. She continued to cast dark looks at Torlin.

The thief shrugged. "At the time, I needed the money."

Thalweg laughed. "That was years ago 'Trissa. The commission was renounced once Res killed the Baron who levelled it. And his two sons, and a cousin, I think. All in fair duels. There were rumours it had been renewed by their kin, but that was never proven. Res is just being cautious."

"All in 'fair' duels. Was that your opinion five years ago when the Council voted to banish me to this frozen wasteland, Baron Thalweg?" The Marshall's voice had lowered. There was now an edge to it.

Thalweg's own voice was calm, even amiable, as he replied. "You killed a Southern baron, Res. That, combined with some truly outrageous debts, mostly owed to southern merchants or barons, meant that your case was doomed even before it reached Council. 'Fair' duels or not, your fate was to be the hangman, or prison. Duke Storm managed to convince the majority, a very small majority, that the kingdom was better served by your being appointed to the Marches!"

"Where it was expected I was to fail", noted Res.

"Yes", answered the Baron. "Most expected you to come crawling back after the first winter, or to be sent back in chains by your own men. Instead, you have forged a small force of malcontents into what I have heard described as a 'fine-fighting force', that brings honour to the Kingdom. Banditry is mostly under control, and you have re-built the defenses at Silver Tree. A solid stone fort and keep now stand where wooden palisades and thatched huts stood a few years ago. You have done well."

The Marshall nodded to Thalweg in thanks for the honest praise. "My only real complaints are the lack of silks, fine cloth and a decent tailor. 'Dem near impossible to get a good suit made in Silver Tree."

Res' joke helped ease the tension at the table.

"And, I am sorry about your mercenaries, Luthor." Res looked Thalweg in the eye. "It was not personal."

Thalweg sighed and shook his head. "I understand that you need men to defend against increasing goblin attacks. But can you not release more than four of them to me?"

The Marshall shook his head. "I cannot. Sell-swords always run the risk of being pressed. Any fees will be returned to you. But I simply cannot leave the northern border in a weakened condition. The goblin raiding started at about the time of the last King's abdication. And it has only increased since the Articles of Succession were read in Council. Coincidence, I am sure. But as a NEW Baron you must appreciate that, as you face the threat from South, I am helping you and your allies make certain that the NEW lands are free from attack from the goblin tribes of the north, your forces' rear?"

'Trissa shook her head. "Luthor and Storm are hardly new barons! I have heard them, and others, addressed this way before. How many years must one have a barony or dukedom to be considered… well, not 'new'?"

"Ah, Lady Lutrissa, you do not understand the term. We do not mean 'new' as in recent", explained the Marshall. "It applies to those barons and dukes allied through common interest and opposed to the Southern baron's near stranglehold on the kingdom. Those barons are from the Northern, Eastern and Western provinces… NEW."

As 'Trissa absorbed this information, Thalweg pressed Res about the mercenaries denied him. Soranyll interrupted the exchange, which was not going in a direction favourable to the Baron.

"Marshall, I take it the Blue Blades refused to enter your service. You were pursuing them, were you not?"

"Yes", replied Res. "Even though more bandit than mercenary, they too could be used in some capacity to defend our borders. But the witch that leads them was not agreeable to my suggestion, or orders. If she had, they'd be alive."

"She knew who we were. Or, at least that the Baron of Crescent was coming to Silver Tree," commented 'Trissa.

"Everyone here knows that Baron Thalweg is in the Marches, or was headed to them", answered Res. "The Guild, and whomever backs them, are very interested in finding you, Luthor. Should you go north, then you enter the mountains and goblin territory. The Guild will have no allies there. You could go east along the peninsula to Borsa. But then you run out of land, and few ships would be willing to sail from the fjords at this time of year. Seas are far too rough. If you go west you run into the moorlands - bogs, tainted water, wyverns and wilderness. A few farms eke out a marginal livelihood. If you get through the moorlands, then you run into the slopes of the Orc Alps and would have to head back south to reach Western Province and your own barony. That is a long, dangerous path home."

"We leave for the north in two days", said Thalweg. "One day, if you have a decent healer in Silver Tree."

* * *

After the feast hosted by the Marshall, the companions retired to the small stone house that had been set aside for their use while in Silver Tree. Separate bedrooms and a combined cooking and eating area offered a homey respite.

Thalweg sat at a wide table mulling over some maps laid out in front of him, grumbling to himself. A chipped clay plate, with the remains of a pudding on it, sat to one side. A tall metal goblet, holding wine, was set to the Baron's right. It was mostly untouched.

Torlin sat at the table across from Thalweg. He was playing with a writing quill, turning it over in his hands, putting it down, then picking it up again.

Soranyll was pacing slowly across the room, turning and retracing his steps.

The Paladin-Elect sat in a chair against the far wall, sipping from her wine-filled cup, watching the three men. The tension in the room had been building for the last half hour. After Soranyll passed her for what must have been the fifteenth time, 'Trissa spoke.

"Someone want to tell me what is going on?"

"Not now, 'Trissa", was Thalweg's reply.

"Yes, now Luthor!" There was an edge to the Paladin's voice that none of the three men had heard before. "Why would Leanorall's fate be of interest to the Guild, or some Southern baron who wants to be king? Soranyll? Torlin?"

The elf and the thief exchanged glances. Soranyll put his hands on his hips and shook his head. It seemed that he wanted to say something but was having difficulty finding the words.

Torlin's left arm flicked out, towards the elf. Something flew out of his hand, embedding itself the floor next to the elf's right foot.

"Rat" was all the thief said.

The elf 's eyes blazed. Glaring at Torlin, he leaned forward, and in a low voice, asked, "What did you say?"

"It was about to bite your heel", replied Torlin, pointing to the large rat beside the elf. It was skewered to the floorboards by the thief's long dagger.

Soranyll stood still, looking down at the dead rodent.

Torlin turned to the Paladin. "I'll go first." His grip on the quill pen tightened.

"My initial refusal to go on this doomed quest was because of fear. I make no apology. You and the elf have no idea what living with fear is like. Years of night terrors abated only by drink, until finally, over a decade later, they start to fade. Good friends slain by that thing….." Torlin stopped to take a deep breath.

"I have already mourned Leanorall", he continued, looking at Soranyll. "To be given a faint hope of her rescue was not enough to tempt me to face that demon again. Thalweg knows that my change of heart was due to renewed Guild interest in me. Their pursuit is purely about money. For me, facing the Guild is certain death. With you lot, well, death is not assured, only very likely. However, I have recently learned that I need not accompany you all the way to the moors. Thalweg only needs me to retrieve an item for Soranyll's spell."

Both Thalweg and Soranyll had fixed their eyes on the thief as he spoke. For the first time since the execution of the bandit, the Paladin met Torlin's gaze.

Torlin turned, regarding the two men. "Nothing? Well then, I will continue. Know, fair Paladin, that the pendant Soranyll has shown us, is a fake. Trickster magic. Thalweg knows it."

The Paladin glared at the elf and the Baron. In her mind she was daring them to correct Torlin, begging them to. She was met with only silence and averted eyes.

"So." 'Trissa's voice was cold. "If Leanorall is dead, what is it that we seek in Bakklar Moor? What does the demon guard that interests a Southern baron?"

"The crown of the last true king of this land", answered Thalweg. "It was taken from the battlefield, where King Tristan fell fighting the goblins, and hidden in a cave in the moors by the three survivors of that battle. The one true crown. Any man possessing it could claim the throne. With the crown in hand, he'd have a near insurmountable advantage in the Succession War."

Torlin glared at his baron.

"You, bastard", hissed the thief! "Politics? You invoke the memory of a dead friend to gain sympathy and allies for what is merely a gamble for the throne?"

"Merely?" Roared the Baron, leaping to his feet. "Do you know what is at stake here, Torlin? You have been hidden away in tiny Vintesse for years, planning and plotting and drinking, and have failed to see what has happened to this kingdom. South rules and prospers, while the other provinces are taxed to near penury! Any Southern baron who claims the throne would only continue the plundering of our lands! Did you know what Council is considering? It has been proposed that any vote can now be called for with only one week's notice. It used to be a month. How many barons can make it to Capitol in less than a weeks' time? Only those from the smaller, richer, closer, southern baronies! It is only hesitation on the part of Central Province barons and dukes that has kept South from controlling everything! So, if South cannot control the Council, then it aims to win a Succession War and anoint a king. You'd want to see Duke Beneficent, or Baron Splorr, or that idiot Fells, as king?"

Torlin had also risen to his feet. Furious brown eyes locked with angry grey ones. The thief slammed his fist down on the table.

"Enough! I do not give a damn about the kingdom, about Storm, or Splorr, or you! You and the elf can go fetch your crown and give it to Theo Storm. You are a blaggard, and have lost whatever integrity you once had, Luthor. Yours are the acts of a coward. There is more honour in the Thief's Guild than in any Baronial Council!"

The two men held each other's gaze for a long moment, the tall baron looking down at the smaller man. Torlin's hands clenched and unclenched, hovering just above the tabletop. Soranyll and 'Trissa were silent, each watching with bated breath. Stepping back from the table and shaking his head, Torlin turned and walked out of the room, leaving the house through the back door.

Together, Soranyll and 'Trissa loudly exhaled.

"I thought you would strike him", stated the Paladin. "Old friend or not, you are his liege. He is under oath to you! What he said was deserving of some response! Surely, you do not fear that little thief? He was unarmed."

To make her point 'Trissa pointed to the knife sticking out of the rat on the floor.

Thalweg, although troubled by his exchange with Torlin, found something in the situation amusing. Chuckling, he responded to the Paladin.

"Torlin is never 'unarmed'. And even if he were, I have seen him kill men with three of the four items on this table. Not fear, 'Trissa. Respect. Now, go get him back in here. Soranyll has something to tell you both."

Rising, the Paladin-Elect swayed slightly. Regaining her balance, she headed out of the room, following the thief. As she passed by the table, she looked at the items on it. Writing quills, a plate, rolls of parchment, and a pewter wine goblet. What and how, she wondered?


	14. Secrets Revealed

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**All chapters in this story are written in a third person (semi-) omniscient point of view, usually for only one or two characters - but this chapter uses that point of view for several different characters. I hope that this is not confusing to the reader, and that the section breaks (scene and narrative shifts) are clear.**

**Chapter 14 – Secrets Revealed**

**T**he Sage raised his hands to his head and rubbed his temples. Too much reading, too many late nights casting complex spells, not enough sleep. Mystra, his head ached. But it was worth it. He now had the answer!

He pushed his chair away from his writing table, which was piled high with scrolls and tomes, stood and stretched, joints popping. Looking wistfully at the bed in the corner of his room, he limped to the door. It was a short walk down the shadowed, wood-paneled hallway to his master's study. By the time he reached it, circulation had returned to his legs and his walk was steadier. As was his custom before entering the young Baron's rooms, he knocked three times, then opened the door.

Baron Splorr was kneeling before a small armoire, its twin doors open. Over the man's shoulder the Sage could see what appeared to be a painting of a white skull centered on a purple starburst centered on the armoire's interior back panel. Splorr extinguished a black candle that sat on a low shelf, closed the shrine's twin doors, stood and turned to his retainer.

"Good news", Splorr asked?

"That is for you to determine, mi'lord", replied the Sage. "But definitely news. You tasked me to uncover what Baron Thalweg was up to in the north. With the information gathered from Guild Master Alzalath, and reviewing all the material that Thalweg had perused at the royal library, and some surprisingly competent investigation on the part of one of my apprentices, I believe I have found what you wanted."

Splorr walked over to a small table on which sat several elegant stemmed glasses and a flagon of wine. He poured himself a glass, hesitated, then poured a second glass, which he offered to the older man.

The Sage gratefully accepted the drink. Splorr, glass raised, looked at the magic-user.

"Am I toasting, or cursing?"

"Ah. Well." The Sage hesitated, took a large gulp from his glass, and delivered his news. "Thalweg seeks the one true crown, lost in battle five centuries ago when King Tristan was slain defending the realm from the goblin hordes."

Splorr slowly lowered his glass. A frown had appeared on the young baron's face. He returned his glass to the table, untouched. Muttering to himself, Splorr paced back and forth across his room for several minutes. The Sage stood, sipping on his wine, watching attentively.

"This is not welcome news. Where is it, and how did Thalweg find out about it?"

"It is somewhere in or under Bakklar Moor, sir. I cannot be more precise than that. As to how Thalweg found out about it, it may be related to his earlier adventures in the north about two decades ago. Also, he came to Capitol with an elf. A mage, not a ranger, if our librarian friend is to be believed."

Baron Splorr nodded. "Yes, yes. In Tristan's time elves were common in these parts. Their history may have more information about the crown than does ours. If so, it was unfortunate that the elf took this to a baron of the West and not a Southern lord."

"What do you wish to do", asked the Sage?

"If Thalweg claims the crown for Duke Storm, many barons would rally to him. My forces are too far away to attempt to take it from Thalweg and his little band. And, I do not trust Alzalath's people to steal it away. Even if they did acquire it, it would end up in Alzalath's hands. He'd blackmail me for it. Or, he might just auction it. Baron Fells could afford to out-bid me."

"So, it might be best if the crown were never recovered?"

"That is exactly what I was thinking, old friend", responded Splorr. "If I cannot have it, then it is best if it were left lost in the Moors. Use the Harbinger. Have her send a message to our agent who travels with Alzalath's cut-throats. We will order them to kill Thalweg and his companions. Best that all four die. No word of the crown should be allowed to get out. We can go looking for the crown later, after I have trounced the upstart NEW barons and am seated on the Pearled Throne."

"Alzalath will be... annoyed when he discovers you have killed off his prey."

"The thief he seeks", asked Splorr? "I have gold enough to smooth that over. Now, get some rest. You look tired. I will arrange to have the Harbinger here early tomorrow morning."

With that dismissal, the older man left the baronial apartment. As the Sage walked down the hallway, he thought he saw a shadow move down a side passageway. Just a guttering torch and old, tired eyes, he reasoned. Time for his bed.

* * *

"Yer sure o' this", asked the Guild Master?

"Oh, yes. Quite certain", the Necromancer replied. "Your ally plans to leave the true crown buried. Smart move, keeping such a treasure hidden away."

The Guild Master shifted his large frame in his chair. "Well, I knows he sent for that Harbinger. I hates relyin' on his people so's I can talk ta mine. Good thing we planned fer this. Ye can send a message direct ta my man?"

"Yes, yes", replied the bent, old man. "As long your man has been following the order we sent him when he was in Net. But… he will find it most unsettling."

"He's done it b'fore. An' I don't care about his nerves, settled or otherwise. Tell 'im ta leave Splorr's agent behind. He's ta wait until he can recover the crown before killin' anyone. N' grab our little thief. Then get back here with Torlin and the crown."

"As you wish, Guild Master. I will prepare", intoned the Necromancer, shuffling out of the room.

* * *

The soft glow from the crystal orb illuminated a goodly portion of the small room. The light was easy on the eyes, if one did not stare directly into the orb. Doing so for more than a moment gave a user without proper magical training, a fierce headache. The orb-gazer did not have that training. After several minutes the pain became too intense. The man slumped forward, resting his throbbing head on the table. The glow from the orb faded, but he knew that the headache would last for a few hours. The man vainly hoped that his loyalty to Baron Splorr would be rewarded when he returned to Southern Province.

Best that he deliver the orders to the Guild members who accompanied him, right away. Walking unsteadily, the man, of near middle years and graying early, adjusted his tunic, making sure the symbol of the House of Splorr was visible and not too wrinkled. He paused before entering the common room of the boarding house he and his 'companions', five murderous cut-throats from the Thieves guild, shared. He took a deep breath and pulled open the door.

Four men sat or lay about the room. Two were paying at dice, one was sharpening what appeared to be a barbed short sword, and the fourth was whittling.

"Where is Kress?" Asked Splorr's agent, referring to the leader of the motley crew.

"Out. Keeping an eye on our prey." replied one of the men at dice.

"Let's hope it's his good eye", laughed the wood carver.

That comment got a laugh from the others. Kress' face was always heavily bandaged, and he seemed to use only his right eye. He never talked about the bandages, and no one asked him. Everyone had the clear impression that any inquiries would be unwelcome and yield an unpleasant result. They only joked about him behind his back.

"Tell him this when he returns. We have new orders. Kill Baron Thalweg and all in his party. That will end this job. You can then return to Net, Furness or Capitol for payment."

"Sounds good to me, Master Jasek", said the whittler. "Not much we can do about it hiding out here at the edge of Silver Tree, though. We'll have to follow them out of town for a day or so. Find the right place to do it. No witnesses."

Jasek nodded, closed the door and returned to his room. He silently cursed the fate that had placed him in Net just when his patron, Baron Kerrogan Splorr, needed a man for a 'special' mission to the north. Jasek's skills were bartering for grains; he was a merchant by trade. The fact that he could read and write did not make him qualified to interpret magic scrolls or use a crystal ball. But, where the Baron directed, you went.

Ilmater, his head ached. Sleep would help.

* * *

'Trissa stepped outside the house, shivering in the cool autumn night air. She looked up. A clear sky. The stars were blazing, shedding enough light to make weak shadows. She promised herself that she would come out here after Soranyll had finished speaking to them. Probably more lies. Ah, crap. The wonder of a northern night sky was now ruined. She spat and looked about for the little thief. There he was. At the corner of the house. Why was he peering around the corner?

Drunk she might be, but not stupid drunk. The Paladin-Elect quietly approached the thief. He turned to her, raising a finger to his lips. He beckoned her closer. Leaning forward, he whispered in her ear.

"We have a Watcher." His breath was warm and smelled like the excellent wine they had been drinking all evening. He also smelled of leather, wood smoke and the outdoors. Shaking her head to clear it, she whispered back.

"Wassa watcher?"

"Thieves Guild member who spies on a target. By that large oak tree across the lane and back about fifty yards. You'll see a pale blob in the fork of that tree. That's his face."

Torlin moved aside to let the Paladin creep forward to the corner of the house. She peeked around the corner. There was the tree. And there was a pale blurry something. It could be anything. It moved! For just a moment she thought she saw a cloaked figure turn then fade away! The pale blob was gone.

Pulling back behind the house, she looked at Torlin, wide-eyed.

"What do we do?" She asked in a whisper.

The thief smiled and spoke quietly. "Nothing to do. They won't attack us here in Silver Tree. Too many of the Marshall's soldiers around."

"Perhaps he means to scare us? Make us show our hand?"

Torlin looked at the Paladin-Elect, an odd expression on his face. 'Good guess. I agree."

The thief and the Paladin were still standing close. 'Trissa could feel the warmth of his body through her tunic.

"Soranyll needs to tell us something", she quickly blurted out. "Probably more lies."

Torlin nodded and followed the woman inside.

* * *

The cloaked figure left his post, satisfied that Thalweg and his companions were staying put for the night. The watcher, 'Kress' to his fellow Guildsmen, reached up to scratch under his bandages. Time to follow Alzalath's order.

As none of his crew could handle a _sending crystal_, they had been at Jasek's mercy when relaying orders or information. It seemed to take a lot out of the merchant, but that was of little concern to the Thieves Guild member. Now it was time to use some magic of his own. He'd done it a few years ago. Damn creepy, but he could do it again.

At the eastern edge of Silver Tree was the town's graveyard. He walked through it, looking for a new grave. He selected what appeared to be the most recent one. Fresh earth was piled higher than the surrounding ground. The dirt had not settled. A wooden headstone read "Beryl". Wilted flowers lay to one side. No one was about at this late hour.

The bandaged man pulled out a bag from beneath his cloak. Rummaging through it, he pulled out a small knife and a blackened silver coin. He set those to one side. A small sack and a steel ring were the next items to be extracted.

Standing a few paces from the grave, Kress poured out white salt from the sack onto the ground. He formed a circle of about a two-foot diameter. He returned the salt sack to the bag and put the steel ring onto the ground just inside the circle. Next, he used the knife to cut his left hand. Blood welled up. After he had collected a small amount of blood in his cupped hand, he dipped the coin in it. He then placed to coin on the grave.

Next, he pulled out two small pieces of yellowed, aged parchment. The stars were bright enough to read by, not that he needed to read the ancient words. He had memorized them years ago. But the ritual called for the words to be read, aloud. Finishing the first brief incantation, Kress stepped back and waited. A few minutes passed. He thought he heard a low moaning.

Watching closely, he saw the earth on the grave start to heave. A hand thrust upwards out of the ground.

Kress stepped into the ring of salt, being careful not to disturb it. He picked up the steel ring and placed it on top of the salt, quietly reciting the spell of protection. Staying within the circle, he drew a wicked barbed, short sword from his belt.

The recently deceased Beryl struggled to claw her way out of the grave. She was soon standing, swaying in the starlight. Unblinking, undead eyes stared at the bandaged man. The re-animated cadaver lurched towards Kress coming to an abrupt halt against the eldritch barrier surrounding him.

Kress, still holding the parchment used to rouse the corpse, spoke.

"Release yar burden. Ya're now the ears and mouth of anudder. Stay still."

A faint moaning issued from the throat of the undead woman, but movement stopped. Bare of foot and dressed only in a burial shroud, the slightly decayed corpse was dirt covered. Kress had chosen the location of his _Protection Circle_ upwind of the grave. A slight breeze carried the stench of decay away for the Guildsman.

"Are ya there, old one? Alzalath?"

The mouth of the corpse opened, and a hollow, voice issued from it.

"The Guild Master and I are here. Report!"

Kress shivered, but not due to the night breeze. "Jasek relayed orders fer us to kill Thalweg an' his party, then ta return home. Is this true?"

The corpse chuckled. "No. Alzalath says that is Baron Splorr's wish, but not his. Thalweg seeks a treasure in the moor. A crown. Take it. Kill the Baron Thalweg, if you can. But bring the crown, and the thief Torlin, back to Furness."

Kress nodded, then realized that the old wizard, at least a week's ride away in Capitol, could not see him.

"Aye", he responded. "An' Jasek?"

There was a moment of silence. Kress figured that the Guild Master was telling the old wizard what to say. The dead woman stared sightlessly at him.

"He cannot be allowed to communicate with Sploor. Kill him if you must. Now, go."

"Sure thing, bass", replied the Guildsman.

Kress sighed to himself, shrugged and gripped his sword firmly. Using his left foot, he kicked at the salt, breaking the _circle of protection_. Before the undead creature in front of him could move, he struck, his sword taking off the corpse's head in a single, quick blow. The re-animated body instantly crumpled, falling to the ground in a heap.

After assuring himself that the recently undead was now, again, dead, Kress removed the steel ring from the circle and kicked dirt over the salt. Leaving the graveyard, Kress headed back to his boarding house. Time for a little sleep.


	15. The Sarsen Stones

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**Chapter 15 – ****The Sarsen Stones**

'**T**rissa and Torlin returned to the kitchen to find steaming mugs of tea on the table. The mugs had been placed on the four corners of a map. Torlin's dagger also lay on the table. It had been cleaned. The rat was gone.

The thief picked up a mug and examined the map. He immediately recognized several features - the mountains to the north, the central plains, and to the west, the Moorlands. Silver Tree was marked by a dark square beside a small fine ink sketch of a tree. At the edge of the Moorlands, several dark circles had been drawn. That, reasoned the thief, must be the caves beneath Bakklar Moor. The caves where Dalin, Biorn and Karyla had died. Where Crispen had been deserted by his God and went mad. Where Leonorall had died. He could not repress a shudder.

The Baron and Soranyll sat at opposite ends of the table. The Paladin-Elect moved over to the table's far side and across from the thief. All eyes were on the elf.

Soranyll stared down at the map. He muttered something in elvish that Torlin did not catch.

"What I tell you now is part elven history, part human legend", stated the elf. "Every five hundred years or so, the goblin race goes insane. Did you know that? Their numbers build and they burst forth out of their mountain lairs and lay waste to the lands to the south. A thousand years ago they ran amok across these lands destroying everything and everyone in their path - elf, dwarf, human, halfling. Killing, devouring all life, burning as they went. None were safe. They numbered in the thousands - the tens of thousands. They were finally defeated by a joint force of elves, men and halflings far to the south, at the border to the Elven Realms."

"Excuse me Soranyll", said 'Trissa. "But I thought that war was against orcs?"

"A common misconception, Lady Lutrissa", replied the mage. "Many find it hard to believe that goblins are a threat. Any well-trained soldier could easily account for two or three goblin warriors, but many thousands of them, all berserk, with poisoned weapons, and directed by hobgoblins or orc commanders? They are nasty creatures at the best of times. But when a bloodlust seizes their entire race? Nothing, no one, is safe."

The elf continued. "A thousand years ago, your kingdom did not exist. It was all wild lands at that time. After the goblin war, your southern baronies were created with the assistance of elves, partly, as a barrier against the goblin hordes. It gave us and the human kingdoms to the south, a buffer, a line of defense should the goblins again amass."

"Which they did, five hundred years ago", guessed Torlin.

"Correct. The kingdom's young and beloved ruler, Tristan, with his bodyguard, the royal mage and some four hundred men and women at arms, met the goblin threat at a mountain pass not far from here. They fought and defeated two thousand, or maybe even three thousand, goblins. Tristan killed their chieftain but received grievous wounds himself. By the end of the battle, only a handful of his warriors lived. They buried their king, and taking the crown with them, headed south and home. Pursued by vengeful goblins, they entered the Moorlands. Fearing being overtaken and slain by the goblins they hid the crown. The Moorlands was a dangerous place, and what you now call Central Province was much wilder back then. Only two warriors returned to Capitol. The histories say that one of them died from wounds within an hour of walking through the city gates. The fate of the second man is unknown. Some sources say he took religious orders and a vow of silence, never revealing where the crown was hidden. Yet another tale says that he found none of the aspirants to the empty throne worthy of the crown, so he either never mentioned where he hid it, or refused to divulge its location. It was also written that he left the Baronies, crossing the Great Dry to the west, to make a new life for himself."

Luthor picked up the tale. "There have always been rumours of riches hidden in the Moorlands. Gold, jewels, buried treasure. Many an adventurer has left Silver Tree or Talking Rock, then headed west or east into the Moorlands in search of a fortune. It is what we did, fifteen years ago, Torlin."

"You knew back then", asked the thief?

"No. Like you, I'd only heard legends. Leonorall told me about stories that her uncle", Thalweg pointed to Soranyll, "had told the family about a great treasure hidden in a cave under Bakklar Moor. Just our luck that it was the damn crown and it was guarded by a Soul Reaver!"

Soranyll continued. "I've not read anything about a demon guardian. Its presence in the cavern could be coincidence."

Torlin, 'Trissa and Thalweg looked askance at the elf. Soranyll held up his hands, as if in surrender.

"Just saying. It could be. I don't believe that myself."

Torlin pointed to the map. "Nothing much between Silver Tree and the Moorlands. A weeks' hard ride to the caves. But I suspect there is one more stop? You need me to acquire something. What and where?"

"There is a small pass, here."

On the map, Soranyll pointed to spot a little north of a point about halfway between Silver Tree and the Moorlands.

"Elven records state that is where Tristan's army met and defeated the goblin horde. The King's body was buried there. That is the 'where'. As for the 'what', a pendant, worn by the King. A gift from his Royal Mage, one Karistides. It's a _protection amulet_ against demonic and undead forces. We need the amulet to get by the Soul Reaver and reclaim the crown."

Three heads turned to Torlin.

"Is that all? Strip a five-century old corpse? Thalweg could do that. You don't need me", was the thief's response. "Unless, of course, the tomb is trapped. After several centuries any trap, magical or mundane, likely would not work."

"Not a risk I am willing to take", stated Soranyll.

The thief nodded. "This should be easy, then. All we need do is stay ahead of the Guild."

'Trissa had turned her attention back to the map. Leaning over it, she traced a line with her finger. From Luthor's western barony east to Capitol, then northeast to Vintesse, west to Net, and then north to Silver Tree. She continued moving her hand across the map, northwest up to the mountain pass, then southwest to Bakklar Moor. In her other hand she grasped her holy symbol. Thumb and forefinger absently rubbing it.

"Now that I understand our objective, I commend you Luthor, and you too, Soranyll, on a sound plan". The Paladin-Elect's voice had an odd timbre to it. "Keeping Torlin and I in the dark helped ensure that no word got out as to your final goal. A zigzag route across the Baronies confuses the enemy. They trace us to Net. We defeat them in battle outside Silver Tree. They spy on us. Oh, yes, we did not mention this - we have a Watcher. They will track us to the moors. And, as we near our goal, their options decrease. They may have sussed out what it is that we seek. If so, then our 'capture' is not their goal. They will try to kill us and claim the prize for themselves. We must be ready."

Still holding her holy symbol, the Paladin-Elect continued her appraisal of their situation. "Assuming we survive the Soul Reaver, and the crown is there, Luthor presents it to Duke Storm on a High Feast Day this autumn, yes? By Winter Solstice the Duke is crowned by the many Barons who now flock to his banner. Come Spring, he marches on Capitol, taking the Pearled Throne. A strong and competent leader would rule the Baronies. He'd reinforce the Northern Marches. When the goblin hordes arise, King Theo would mount a stalwart defense of the Kingdom, and the Baronies, the Elven Realms and their vassal kingdoms to the south are saved, again. That is the game plan, is it not Lord Soranyll?"

The elven mage offered the Paladin-Elect a wintry smile. "Your study of the _Annals of Warfare_ is showing, Lady. I'd wager you're also a skilled lanceboard player?"

"Fair to middling", replied 'Trissa. An odd lilt had appeared in 'Trissa's speech that none of the three men had noted previously, but then they'd never seen her drunk before.

The thief looked closely at the young woman. There was also an unfamiliar swagger to her step.

The Paladin-elect continued to play with her holy symbol, alternately twisting it and caressing it. The symbol, worn by clergy and paladins of the Red Knight, was a red, semi-precious stone carved in the likeness of a knight chess piece. The figurine's eyes were made from small yellow gems that glowed in the muted light offered by fireplace and candles.

"An assessment worthy of the Red Lady herself", observed Thalweg.

"This one has been hesitant to accept the Red Lady's guidance", stated the Paladin-Elect. "But we can no longer afford the luxury of reticence. Other lives and our prize could be lost."

Thalweg pushed his chair back and rose to his feet, wincing slightly and holding his left side.

"There's an old woman in the village. She supplies adventurer's with elixirs. If she can speed my healing, then we set out the next day. If she cannot… well, we head out just the same."

"No", said 'Trissa. "We cannot afford to waste any time. The Conjunction approaches, as do enemy forces from the south. Delay could be fatal to the cause!"

She walked over to the Baron. Reaching out a hand, she lay it flat on his chest. Perhaps it was the late hour, or too much wine, or no longer having young eyes, but Torlin thought he saw a soft silver light flare between the Paladin-Elect's fingers. Thalweg startled, jerked and stepped back.

"You are healed, Baron."

With that announcement 'Trissa turned, walking out of the kitchen and down the short hallway to her room. Waving a hand more in dismissal than farewell, she mumbled "G'night", and entered her room, closing the door behind her.

"Did she refer to herself in the third person', asked Soranyll?

* * *

It was mid-morning by the time their horses, supplies and Thalweg's mercenaries, were gathered. Luthor had been promised four mercenaries but what he got was more like three and a half. Dorcen, one of the mercenaries, had his young nephew in tow. The boy, who answered to Flint, was perhaps fourteen or fifteen years of age and had been foisted onto his uncle that summer after the boy's mother had passed. The lad put on a brave face and tried to make himself useful by fetching and carrying, running errands and helping with the horses, but mostly he just ended up being underfoot.

The Marshall rode up to the group just as they were finally getting the horses and pack animals under control. The same large, bald man from last night's festivities was at Res' side. Two rough looking, shabbily dressed men accompanied them. Resplendent Tor was wearing the same armour, plumed helmet, and white cape he had worn when pursuing the Blue Blades. The Marshall walked his horse up to where 'Trissa sat astride her mount,0 conversing with one of the mercenaries, a tough looking, leather clad woman named Beatrix.

He greeted them with a "Well met, ladies."

Beatrix snorted, turned and moved away to check on Flint's work.

Res smiled after her. He took off his cape and handed it to the Paladin-Elect.

"A cold wind blows down from our mountains, Lady Lutrissa. Please accept this small gift as a 'thank you' for brightening the festivities of last night?"

'Trissa stroked the fine material. Fur trimmed and with a scarlet liner, it would be very warm. And hard to keep clean. "Thank you, Marshall. But I cannot accept such a gift. It is a luxury, of which my goddess would not approve."

"Ah, your goddess wishes you to be cold, stiff and numb on the road? How odd. Why don't you just borrow it for your time here in the north? You can return it to me when next you pass this way. Which, I hope, will be soon?"

'Trissa was not sure if it was the Marshall's flashing eyes, charming smile, or the cool morning wind that gave her a chill. She laughed at his jest, then graciously accepted the loan of the cape.

Marshall Tor turned to look for the Baron.

Several yards away, Thalweg sat his horse with the comfort of years spent in a saddle. He was watching his new recruits pack gear and weapons. Other than young Flint, he liked what he saw. Dorcen and Beatrix seemed capable fighters; weapons were kept in fine shape and their armour, although mismatched, was of good quality. The fourth member, a dark-haired, sallow looking fellow named Jimkar, had kept mostly to himself that morning. He did not interact with anyone other than Flint, and his words were few and dealt only about the business of readying their gear. His attention to details, such as the right knots, load weights, and proper packing, was annoying, and caused Flint much grief. Thalweg appreciated the care the man showed in his work.

Catching the Baron's eye, Res pointed to the two men behind him.

"Brought you two more recruits", said the Marshall.

Thalweg noticed the marks that manacles had left on the two men's wrists.

"Prisoners?" The Baron snorted. "You'll not unload your problems onto me, Marshall!"

"They were destined for the gallows. Murderers. A robbery gone bad. You can take them today or I can hang them tomorrow. I don't much care which it is."

"Do they understand that within a few weeks they will most likely be dead?"

The prisoner to the Marshall's right, a tall, blond, thin man, addressed Thalweg. "I'll take those two weeks, if I might mi'lord. Don't wanna swing."

"Any skills other than banditry and murder", asked the Baron?

"Um, pickpocketing and I'm pretty good with an axe. My lad here", the tall man nodded his head at his companion. "He's a former Blue Blade, done some rustling, and is decent enough in a fight, I reckon."

"Can't he speak for himself?"

"No, Sir. He's mute."

"Got any gear?"

"No, Sir. Just these fine horses, which the Marshall provided."

Thalweg looked at the Marshall and shook his head. "Really? A pair of murderers, two scraggy hags that look like they'll die if ridden more than a mile, and no weapons or armour? Your generosity astounds me."

"I am pleased I can be of assistance, mi'lord", was the Marshall's sardonic reply.

Thalweg shouted to Torlin. "Get them kitted out with the gear you expropriated from Net, and whatever you've managed to steal from around here in the last day. We leave within the hour!" Torlin nodded and waked over the two newest recruits, ignoring the dark look sent his way from the Marshall.

* * *

Within the hour Thalweg's small force was riding out of the Silver Tree, heading north. Soranyll was in the lead, the Palaldin-Elect close behind him. They were followed by the three mercenaries and Flint, with the two parolees at the end.

Torlin, Thalweg and Resplendent Tor watched from the fort's gate.

"I wish you well, Baron Thalweg. Sincerely." Res said.

"Thank you, Marshall. A word to the wise? Your goblin nuisance will grow. It is a threat to Silver Tree. Take all precautions. There'll be no help from Capitol until a new king sits on the throne", cautioned Thalweg.

With those discouraging words, the Baron and the thief set out after the riders.

"So, Torlin. Who do you think is the spy?"

"Do you mean the Guild spy who follows me, the Blue Blade's spy, the spy from the Southern baron who follows you, or the Marshall's spy?"

"What a merry little band we are!"

* * *

Soranyll led them on a week's hard ride. He claimed to be not entirely certain of the route, thus the false starts and circling back, but Torlin had the distinct impression that the Elf knew exactly where they were going. However, the circuitous route gave Thalweg and Torlin the opportunity to see if anyone was following them.

Torlin warned Thalweg that someone in the group was leaving small, unobtrusive markers along their path, usually wherever they diverged from the more established trails, but he had not been able to identify the culprit.

Each day followed the same routine. An early start and riding for a few hours, a short rest for the horses, walking for a few miles more, then a meal break. Riding again through the afternoon. Camp was set up quickly and expertly by Jimkar, with Flint's assistance. Beatrix and the tall blond ex-prisoner, Dill, usually prepared meals. The other prisoner, Toto, was an affable fellow with a marvelous ability to scrounge food from a cold, autumn countryside. The man had a good knowledge of plants and woodcraft.

Evenings were a time for weapons practice. Thalweg insisted that all participate. The mercenaries and Dill thought it a joke, until Thalweg knocked each one of them off their feet using a quarter staff, while they were armed with variety of swords and axes. Everyone except Toto. The silent man had armed himself with a short sword and a few hand axes, but on seeing Thalweg's skill against his fellows, he stepped to the side and removed his weapons harness. He picked up a stout pole used to support the crude tents that the group set up each night. He took a strip of leather and quickly wrapped the pole at three locations, where a user's hand's most often grasped a staff.

Signaling to the Baron that he was ready, Toto stepped forward. The group formed a circle around him and Thalweg - curiosity on most faces, a knowing smirk on Dill's.

What followed was a master class in staff fighting. Torlin watched the two combatants closely. Basic techniques quickly morphed to higher skill levels as the two men tested each other with feints and ripostes. Toto was younger than the Baron and might have been the more technically proficient of the two, but Thalweg had a lifetime of fighting experience and more dirty tricks in his repertoire. The shadows were growing long when 'Trissa stepped up and halted the bout.

"If no one disagrees, we'll call that a tie?"

Thalweg and Toto, both gasping for breath, nodded. The company applauded the two fighters. It had been an exciting and unexpected display of quarterstaff talent. The applause, and a shout of approval from Beatrix, startled a large owl that had been sleeping in a tree at the edge of their camp. With a cross sounding "hoot-hoot-hootoo" it leapt off its perch and silently glided away into the surrounding forest.

Dill ran over to his friend and slapped him on the back, big smiles on both men's faces.

Torlin handed Thalweg a water skin. "You were holding back, a bit", he said softly to the Baron.

"So was he", rasped Thalweg, nodding his head towards Toto.

* * *

The company's meandering course lead north and east, and higher into the hills. A slow trudge up a long slope and through a scrubby pine forest finally took them above the tree line. Many large, long rectangular blue-grey stone blocks lay scattered along their path. Most were between ten and fifteen feet in length and lay on their sides, but a few stood upright.

"Sarsens" noted Dorcen. "Some say they were the playthings of giants. Blocks or gaming pieces for them to cast."

Dill had stopped to examine one. "From a distance they look carved, but there are no tool marks on them", he observed.

Soranyll, who had grown quieter each day that had passed since leaving Silver Tree, pointed uphill.

"Not much further", he said.

Torlin turned to follow a shadow that flitted across the ground beside him. Alighting on one of the taller sarsens, was a large owl. It glared at the company below, hooted, then closed its eyes, settling down for midday nap.

The bright blue sky and warm autumn sun that had been their daily lot had changed as they traversed the path to the site of the ancient battle. Grey clouds now hid the sun and a cool wind blew down from the pass. Several hundred yards further upslope the path leveled. Mountains towered over them to either side. The pass was about forty yards wide with small clumps of a willowy shrub growing in patches of soil that were scattered about the rock strewn, flat ground. A group of sarsens, all standing, could be seen to their left. Several of the long stones had, either by fate or fortune, lay across the pass, near to its northern end. They formed a crude, waist high wall. Beyond them, the ground quickly fell away. It was a steep, rocky trail that led northward and into the mountains proper.

Soranyll was staring at the standing stones, which appeared to have been formed into a circle.

Thalweg coughed, loudly, breaking Soranyll's contemplation.

"Lord Soranyll. Is this where the battle took place", the Baron asked?

"Yes. The goblins charged up that north slope. They hurled themselves against the defensive wall", he pointed to the stones lying across the path, "Like rabid dogs. Wave after wave of them. They came in the thousands. Funneled into this pass, they were easy targets for the King's archers. Until they ran out of arrows. Then it was sword and axe against goblin knives and clubs. Or, so it was recorded."

"And the sarsen stones over there?" Asked 'Trissa, pointing to the circle of stones.

"That is where they buried the King."

Thalweg called to Dorcen. "Take Jimkar and keep an eye the to the north. Beatrix? You and Dill watch our rear. Flint. Guard the horses here. You and Toto are to keep an eye on them and watch the hillsides above us."

Looking at his companions, Thalweg pointed to the sarsen circle. "Let's get that pendant."

Entering the circle, they saw that it consisted of a dozen bluish stones each about ten feet high and a yard wide. The circle was thirty to forty feet across and at its center was a flat slab of dressed yellow stone, eight feet long and three feet wide. The yellow stone, a travertine, Thalweg guessed, stood a few feet higher than the surrounding ground. Carved into the surface of the block was the weathered image of a crown. The name '_Tristan'_ was engraved below the crown.

'The King's tomb", murmured the Baron. 'Trissa touched her holy symbol and muttered a prayer. Soranyll stood silently with head bowed.

"He's not the only one buried here, is he, Soranyll", Torlin asked? The thief stood a little apart from the group, eyeing one of the sarsens. He pointed to the stone. "These are grave markers. There is a name written on it. Elvish script. _'Aredhyl'._

The Paladin-Elect walked over to another sarsen stone at the far side of the circle. "I think this one says _'Verynduil'_?

"'_Theranduil'_", said the mage, correcting her pronunciation.

Torlin walked part way along the circle, stopping briefly at each stone to decipher the elvish script that had been finely tooled into the rock, and reading out the name on each one. He paused at the fourth stone. Taking out his water skin, he splashed some of its contents onto the stone, causing it to turn a darker blue.

"This name has been partly scratched out. Below it is a runic letter. _'K'_. What was the royal mage's name who fought for the king?" Torlin directed the question to Soranyll.

"Karistides", answered the elf. "He died here, too."

"Yeh?", replied the thief. "So, if he is buried here, why does his grave marker also have your name on it?"


	16. Friends, Fiends, and In-Betweens

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**Chapter 16 – Friends, Fiends and In-Betweens**

**S**oranyll slowly walked over to where Torlin was standing. The elf reached out a hand and gently traced the marred but still eligible elvish script.

"How old are you, Lord Soranyll", asked 'Trissa?

"Asking the age of a person obviously older than oneself is considered bad form in Elven society", responded the mage.

"Same with humans", replied 'Trissa. "How old are you?"

"Six-hundred and sixty-five."

"Oh!"

Thalweg, still standing by the King's crypt, voiced the obvious conclusion.

"Those elvish histories you referenced. Not texts, but memories. You were one of the King's Elvish bodyguards!"

"Er, they are written histories. I wrote them. But yes, also memories. I was the most junior member of the King's Guard. Theranduil was our Captain."

"What happened after King Tristan slew the Goblin chieftain", inquired Torlin of the elf?

Soranyll tore his gaze from the stone and looked at his companions.

"The goblin leader's head was struck from his body by an axe blow from the King. It sailed over the horde of goblins pressing us. When they saw their leader's decapitated body fall, they lost heart. The goblin rage was quenched in fear and grief. They fled, but not before releasing a last flight of poisoned arrows at us. Tristan, already badly wounded, received one in his neck. He died in Karistides' arms at that very spot". The elf pointed to the yellow stone tomb.

"By the end of the battle, we had few medicines left. Our clerics, and the few paladins that had joined our cause, were dead. Poisoned wounds and despair took several more men before the sun set. By nightfall only myself, the last of the Elven Guard, and the Royal Mage, one knight, and three men-at-arms were left alive. All of us were wounded. One last rush by the goblins would have ended it. But they did not return."

"And Karistides also died of his wounds?" guessed 'Trissa.

"No", replied the elf matter-of-factly. "I killed him."

Thalweg shook his head in puzzlement. "Well, of course you did. Um, I think you've left something out, Soranyll."

Both the Paladin-Elect and the thief nodded their heads in agreement.

A wistful look crossed the elven mage's face. "I was hoping to avoid telling this. It is a secret I and the other survivors swore to keep. But after all this time it seems silly to be concerned about the reputations of the dead."

The Baron, 'Trissa and Torlin approached the elf, eager to hear more of the history of their kingdom from someone who had witnessed one of its greatest events.

"Karistides loved the King. Perhaps too well", explained Soranyll. "Tristan's death and the poison from his own wounds greatly affected the Royal Mage. For such a powerful wizard - he slew tens, even hundreds, of goblins with a single spell - Karistides was young. He had acquired much magical knowledge very quickly. That is always a cause for concern. Too much magic, too much arcane knowledge, untempered by age - and by that, I mean experience or wisdom - can unbalance a human mind. 'Mad as a Mage' is a popular saying, but it has roots in truth."

"More common in sorcerers than wizards", Thalweg said. "But I've seen it. Dangerous."

Soranyll continued his tale. "Karistides would not leave without burying the King. Renewing his spells that next day, he called on elemental servants to create this circle and the King's tomb. He used the King's pendant and forbidden spells to control undead soldiers, our own former colleagues, and bade them toss the goblin bodies down the northern slope. The Royal Mage then used his magics to cremate our dead where they had fallen. The rest of us were kept busy organizing our few supplies, safeguarding the crown, salvaging weapons, tending our wounds, standing guard and plotting a route home to Capitol. All through that day we could hear the goblin drums. We feared attack at any minute but Karistides would not leave until his tribute to the King he loved was finished. None of us dared oppose him. Wounded and feverish though he was, he was still a Court noble and a powerful wizard. My own magic was poor back then. Even now, as a Lore-Master, I'd not want to cross a wizard as powerful as he."

The elf looked at the standing sarsens, gesturing with both arms. "After laying the King to rest the Royal Mage commanded an earth elemental to erect these stones and dig out graves at the foot of each sarsen. He then magically inscribed each stone with one of my brother elves' names. The Elven Guard were lain to rest, attending to their king even in death. You can imagine my surprise when I came up to the last stone and saw my name on it! Thinking him confused, perhaps delirious from his wounds or the poison that seemed to have affected his mind and mood more than his body, I asked him why the last stone bore my name? He shouted his reply, loud enough for all to hear: '_All of us will serve our King in death, as in life_'.

Soranyll paused, momentarily overwhelmed by memory and grief, then continued in a quieter voice. "I pointed out to him that I was still alive, as was he and some others. Karistides had a wild look in his eyes, sweat beaded his forehead, and he was shaking, but whether from fever, cold, fear or anger, I could not tell. He screamed at me: _'If we had given our lives for Him, He would still be alive. We failed our King! Our deaths will remove that dishonour!'_ Have you ever stared into the eyes of a madman? I did that day. And I knew, knew to the very marrow of my being that he was going to kill us all as some demented tribute to his dead, beloved king. Tymora, Lady Luck, was with me that day. Karistides had always favoured offensive spells over defensive magics, and he had used much magic that day to build the graves."

Soranyll paused, reliving that moment. "I struck first. Before another word could be said, a wand drawn, any enchantment released, or spell cast, I drew my blade and buried it in his heart. His body slid off my sword and tumbled into the very grave he had marked for me. The others had witnessed our exchange and they quickly helped me bury the mage. One of them, Silas, using a chisel, took a moment to cross out my name and add the runic 'K' to the stone marker. With the goblin drums echoing in our ears we rode south as fast as we could."

"You fled to the Moors", stated Thalweg.

"Yes", answered the elf. "Just after we hid the crown, we lost Silas to a wyvern attack. A week later Sir Jons fell to an orc ambush. A few days after that we last three reached Capitol. In those days the city had not expanded to the north bank of the River Silver - there were only some outlying estates, a few warehouses and quays there. I watched from the docks as my last two companions took a ferry across to the city proper. I took passage on an elven ship that very hour and headed home without ever entering the city. I'd enough of the kingdom, and humans, and death."

"A sad tale, Soranyll." Luthor's voice was soft, with no trace of either joviality or gruffness, his two most common tones.

The Paladin-Elect looked pensive, her right hand stroking her holy symbol, her lips moving silently.

Torlin asked the obvious questions. "And you never told your niece about those adventures? You made no reference to the crown?"

"No, Torlin. When she was a child, I told her stories of elven heroes and evil mages, of great treasures hidden in the moors. Tales of quests and loss. But never the truth as I have just now recounted to you."

"From where did the Soul Reaver come?" Asked 'Trissa, her voice carrying an odd, echoing resonance.

Soranyll turned back and looked at the sarsen that marked Karistides' grave. "Some spell or rather a summoning, created by the King's Mage, is my guess. Something tied to King Tristan. Or his possessions. A guardian that, for reasons unknown, was not called forth until you Baron Thalweg, and my niece, entered the caves."

"Obviously the demon must have been commanded before the Mage's death"' reasoned 'Trissa. "The spell would recognize friend or foe. You, Soranyll, were a member of the Elven Guard. Those with you were the King's men. There was no threat to Tristan or the crown. But centuries later, when Luthor and his companions entered the caves, the spell was triggered as none of them could claim fealty to a king long dead!"

The elf gave the Paladin-Elect a long searching look.

Thalweg nodded, swung to Torlin and pointed at the royal tomb. "Get it open. We need that pendant."

"You just heard about an insane mage who used magic to create this graveyard, and you want me to tamper with his handiwork", asked the thief?

"'_This will be easy'_. Isn't that what you said?" Jibed Thalweg.

Walking over to the tomb, Torlin flicked a finger at the Baron. The thief carefully eyed the stone casket. Crouching down, he gently ran a hand along the smooth top slab of the tomb. Even though the day was cloudy and cool, the yellow stone felt warm. Small lines and swirls of a reddish hue were the only features that could be seen in the stone, other than the carving of the crown and the King's name. He began to examine the tomb in minute detail, pausing only once near the foot of the sarcophagus, before continuing.

Thalweg knew from past experiences that Torlin's examination would take some time. The thief was an annoying professional. Time to look in on his small force of mercenaries. Exiting the stone circle, Thalweg headed to the north end of the pass, soon catching sight of Jimkar and Dorcen.

After a quick conversation with the two men Thalweg checked on Flint and Toto, then had few words with Beatrix and Dill. Beatrix pointed to the south.

"Dust." Was all she said.

"Riders", queried Thalweg?

"Not sure, sir", she replied. "I'll keep an eye on it."

Returning to the stone circle the Baron saw Torlin in conversation with the elf. 'Trissa was at the far side of the circle examining one of the blue-grey sarsens.

"Well?"

Torlin answered the Baron.

"If Soranyll's recollections are accurate, then the covering slab was rotated into place, probably on a pivot post contained in the west wall of the tomb. There will be metal or even stone latches or pins that need to be released before the lid can be moved aside. I've found a keyhole at the foot of the tomb. Simple enough. If the mechanisms are still working, I trip the latches and we slide the slab over. The king was laid out in his battle dress with the pendant around his neck. We grab it and go."

'We return the tomb to its closed and locked position, before we leave", scowled the elf at the thief.

"Of course, we do that", said Thalweg, glaring at Torlin. "Traps?"

"Yup", averred the thief. "Soranyll cast _'Detect Traps'_. He says there is something there but cannot be sure what it does. It is most likely that any trap is set to catch someone forcing the tomb open. As we will be releasing the locking mechanism and not forcing it, we are probably safe."

"Probably", questioned 'Trissa?

'Most likely safe", offered the thief. "Besides, I am the one opening it. There should be no danger to anyone standing well back."

"Then, open it", commanded Thalweg.

Kneeling at the foot of the tomb, Torlin pulled out a slender leather packet from his right boot. Unrolling it, he selected a fine, polished steel pick. His three companions crowded closer to see what he was doing. The thief scraped at what appeared to be a small indentation in the stone at the tomb's base. In less than a minute he had flaked away a yellow coloured covering material to reveal a hole the diameter of a man's forefinger. Next, he pulled out a slender brass probe. Turning to his small audience, he cautioned them.

"I do suggest you all step back about ten yards. I am quite sure that nothing is going to happen, but if Thalweg is killed, I do not get paid. This is why thieves are paid so well. We really do take a lot of risks. It is not all sneaking around in shadows and avoiding fights."

Thalweg, Soranyll and 'Trissa all stepped back, spreading out in different directions. No one mentioned that if Thalweg were killed by a trap, then it was also very likely that the thief, positioned even closer to the crypt, would also be killed.

Inserting the brass probe in the keyhole, Torlin slowly eased it forward until he met resistance. He then used the probe to softly tap against whatever it was that had stopped its progress. The sound produced indicated it was a metal object, not stone or wood. Taking a deep breath Torlin pushed the probe against the obstruction. Nothing happened. He tried again, harder. Damn it. Rusted shut, no doubt. Sighing, he held the brass pick firmly against what he hoped was the release mechanism. Using the pommel of his dagger he struck the tool. Inside the crypt, rust fell off the metal pin he was hammering. It released. Two loud thuds, like bricks dropping on the ground, echoed from inside the tomb. The covering slab vibrated slightly against Torlin's hand. The narrowest of gaps appeared between the top slab and the walls of King Tristan's cist.

A small smile lifted the corners of Torlin's mouth. Seeing the thief's reaction, Thalweg guffawed and raised a fist. 'Trissa released a breath that she had been holding for what seemed a small eternity.

Soranyll pointed to the carved image of the crown on the cover slab. It was glowing.

"Is that bad", asked the Baron.

"I do not think it is good", replied the elf.

"Torlin…!" before Thalweg could finish accusing the thief of a blunder, sparks shot out of the glowing nimbus that had formed over the image of the crown. A dozen blue-white glints arced over their heads, each one striking a different sarsen stone.

Thalweg drew his sword, grasping the long hilt in two hands, feet shifting as he quickly looked around. 'Trissa's brought her shield up to guard position and clasped her holy symbol in her right hand, her mouth silently invoking an orison, her eyes moving from stone to stone. At a muttered command from the elven mage the rune-carved short staff that he held in his right hand morphed into a shining, silver elven blade. He turned to face the grave marker at the north end of the circle. His purported burial place and Karistides' grave.

Torlin ducked down against the king's tomb wrapping his shadow cloak tightly around himself, attempting to hide, his actions contradicting the bold statement he had made moments earlier.

A mountain wren continued to twitter in some scrub outside the circle. Flint's voice could be heard in the distance, talking to the horses. After a moment, the four companions relaxed.

"Ah. Hate wasting a good _Blessing_ and an _Enchant Weapon_ spell", said 'Trissa. "But better that than…"

The Paladin-Elect's thought was cut off by an ear-splitting peel of thunder. The rock and earth that had filled the Elven graves exploded up and outwards showering the four companions with dust, dirt and stone. Eleven gaunt skeletal armoured forms clambered out of their graves, each one carrying a long sword, which in contrast to their rusted and tattered armour, shone brightly.

The animated dead Elven Guards turned decayed faces and sightless eyes towards the King's tomb. Soranyll focused his gaze on one of the undead elves and spoke softly in Elvish.

"Theranduil, my Captain."

The undead guard captain's skull rotated slowly and unnaturally to face Soranyll. Upon locking its empty eye sockets on the living elf, the undead creature brought up its sword in a salute.

"So, friends", ventured Thalweg?

No", replied Soranyll. "It's a challenge."

The mage responded with a salute of his own.

The undead elves attacked.

* * *

**F**rom his place of relative concealment, Torlin had a good view of three different fighting styles.

Thalweg, ever aggressive and never one to wait for an attack, sprang forward to deal with the creature closet to him before other foes could join against him. The undead warriors moved, not with the shuffling gate of simple skeletons, but with speed and determination. The Baron swung his sword two-handed in a sideways arc against the undead elf. Dropping his shoulders at the last moment, the Baron's blade swung below the elf's defensive stroke, slicing deeply into the undead's armour at hip level. Dry, cracking sounds indicated the breaking of old bones. Nearly cut in two, the cadaver stumbled and fell in a heap. The Baron passed by the still struggling pile of bones and engaged two more of the undead warriors.

The Paladin-Elect used a defensive technique. She waited for two of the warriors to close with her, readying her mace and moving slightly to her left to ensure that they engaged her at the same time. Two opponents so close together hindered each other's movement, while she had two targets in easy striking distance. Even a missed swing of her weapon at one foe had a chance of hitting the other. With her shield protecting her one side, she fought defensively and conservatively, waiting for the right moment to deliver what she hoped would be a disabling blow.

Soranyll had no idea what battle skills, strategies or weaknesses were retained by his undead brother elves, but removing what had been their most talented fighter, Theranduil, could only be a good thing for him and his companions. Using a fast casting skill learned from a Netherese a century ago, the elven mage called forth a ball of purple fire into his left hand. In the space of a quick breath he released it at the long dead elven Captain's animated corpse. The ball flew almost too fast to see and certainly too fast to avoid. Striking Theranduil's chest, purple flames engulfed the undead soldier. A cold fire burned through the half-rotted armour, turning bone to ash, destroying the skeletal frame.

Thalweg was holding his own against a pair of undead while 'Trissa was being hard-pressed by her two opponents. A third undead member of the Elven Guard was making its way towards her. The last four undead warriors had encircled Soranyll. With swords raised, they were closing on him.

Torlin stood and heaved against the stone slab that covered the long dead king.

"Torlin!" Shouted Thalweg. "Get that damn pendant!"

"Trying!"

The thief strained against the tomb's stone lid. It did not budge. Tyr's right nut! He tried a third time with the same results. No movement. Was the slab a one-way pivot? Running to the head of the tomb, Torlin planted his feet firmly on the ground and his hands on a corner of the lid. He pushed. And pushed again. Nothing. He pushed harder, if that were possible. Veins and tendons stood out on his face, neck and hands. Sweat poured across his brow. And the lid moved! Almost two whole inches, then stopped.

Gasping for breath, the thief reasoned that either the stone lid was far heavier than it looked, or some failure of the mechanism, perhaps an unreleased locking pin, prevented the lid from moving further. Either way, more muscle was needed. Torlin looked about the circle, seeking assistance.

Thalweg's second and third undead opponents were a pile of spasming bones and broken armour at the far side of the circle, and he was closing with the fourth Elven Guardsman who had been about to attack Soranyll from behind.

The mage had apparently cast a spell to control plants, as low-growing grasses and brambles had entangled one of his three remaining opponents. That armoured skeleton slashed untiringly at the vegetation that held it in place. Soranyll was barely holding his own against his two remaining undead brethren. His fine elven blade, now glowing blue, jumped from defense to offense, first parrying one of his foe's thrusts, then delivering a solid blow to the other undead. But, unlike the sword fight back in Harvest that Torlin had witnessed, the elf now fought against what had been elite swordsmen. And, although the undead's movements appeared unnatural, they retained much of their past skill.

Looking to his right Torlin saw that 'Trissa had positioned herself with her back against a sarsen and one of the deep empty graves on her right. That meant that only her left flank and front were open to attack. Her shield skill was good, and if she could maintain that defense, she had only the skeleton in front of her to be concerned about, although a third was closing.

"Need your muscles, mi'lord", hollered Torlin over the din of battle.

Thalweg delivered a final vicious cut to the skeleton he was fighting. It dropped to the ground as if it had been a puppet and its strings had just been cut. The Baron cursed and shouted back at the thief.

"Get out here and fight! I'll move the damn lid!"

"Looks like you all have things handled, Luthor. It may take two of us to get this open!"

Luthor Thalweg drove his sword into the ground. "Switch with me, man. You may not have noticed, but they aren't staying down!"

Thalweg pointed to the pile of bones that had been two fallen Elven Guardsmen. The bones had reformed into a grotesque version of a headless elven skeleton. It had two legs, but three arms grew out from its torso. Two of the arms each held a sword. The third arm hoisted a skull aloft. Odd bits of armour, grass and rock had fused with the bones. The new undead monstrosity lurched towards the elf.

Drawing his blades, Torlin ran after the new horror that was heading for Soranyll's back. Thalweg passed him on his way to the tomb, shouting. ""Stickpins won't do it. Use my sword!"

"It doesn't like me!" Responded the thief.

"No one does", roared the Baron, as he vaulted the tomb to stand at the corner where Torlin had had a very limited success in moving the top slab. "Use it!"

Torlin cursed, knowing the Baron was correct. Sheathing his daggers, he reached out and grabbed the Baron's sword as he passed it. Hefting the weapon two-handed, he swung it at the back of the three-armed undead. In mid-swing, black flames burst from the sword, running the length of the blade.

The Baron's sword sliced across the back of the undead, leaving a smoking black line. The creature staggered, then quickly regained its footing. The skeleton's third arm twisted, turning the skull in its hand to face back at its attacker.

"Crap" muttered the thief.

A sword, especially one as large as the one used by Baron Thalweg, was not the thief's preferred weapon. He knew how to use a sword but fighting an undead warrior wielding two blades and holding its own head aloft was something new to Torlin. Besides the skeleton, Torlin had another battle going on. Thalweg's sword had long been host, well prison, to a Flame Spirit - a minor fire elemental. Imprisoned decades ago, she had another half-century of service to the wielder of the sword. Some masters, such as Thalweg, she served loyally. Others, she tolerated. And a few had to fight for control of the weapon. Having one's mind occupied in a battle of wills against a Spirit entity resulted in some poor defensive choices on Torlin's part. He was being driven back.

"She's fighting me, again!" He yelled out to Thalweg, who was behind him.

The Baron was straining against the tomb's recalcitrant stone lid. Between gritted teeth he gasped out, "Tell - her - she's - pretty! She - likes - that!"

Avoiding a cut from each of the skeleton's swords, Torlin stepped back, focusing his will. The black flames flared then diminished just as the undead horror stepped forward,

"Good Spirit," thought the thief!

Torlin drove the sword deep into the skeleton's chest, then released the elemental. A sheet of ebony flame engulfed the undead, turning it into a heap of smoldering, black cinders.

* * *

**D**eft footwork on Soranyll's part allowed him to force one of the skeletons into the other's line of attack. The fouling of each undead's weapon allowed the elf to disengage and quickly scan the circle. He saw Torlin, apparently holding Luthor's sword, striding through a pile of smoke and embers, making his way to the skeleton that was trying to free itself from his _Bramble_ spell. The Paladin-Elect was at the far side of the circle battling two, or was it three, skeletons. She seemed to be well positioned for defense. Luthor, straining against the lid of Tristan's tomb, was unaware of an undead Guardsman, sword raised, only a few paces behind him.

Hastily pulling his wand from his belt, the elven mage unleashed a _fireball_ that arced across the circle, narrowly missing the Baron but striking the head and upraised arms of the undead warrior, one of his former friends. The skeletal head, arms and shoulders burst into flames, the elvish blade dropping to the ground.

An excruciatingly painful cut to his left arm brought the elf's attention back to his own battle. If not for his _Mage Armour_ spell, that last blow would have dismembered him! Dropping his wand and staggering back, Soranyll brough his sword up to parry a blow from the second skeletal warrior, his left arm now useless.

* * *

**L**ady Lutrissa Betha Cassender was determined to not die fighting undead swordsmen on a lonely, forgotten mountain pass. She had a quest to fulfill! But these damn elven skeletons kept cutting and stabbing at her - she barely had time to think about her defense, and none to form a plan of attack. And she was tiring while they were unrelenting.

'_Goddess! Zelia! What am I doing wrong?'_ she prayed.

'EVERYTHING' was the reply that echoed in her head. 'LET ME HELP.'

Relenting to a sparring partner in the gymnasium, or acceding to a tutor's instruction in catechism, even acknowledging one's own weaknesses in a confessional, were all forms of surrender. But conceding one's body or will, or accepting a penance, in a seminary were tests of devotion - not of faith. The consequences of those acts affected only the novitiate's ego. But surrendering one's will during battle – that was a leap of faith.

A leap the Paladin-Elect took.

'Trissa felt a soft tingling along her spine. Something had changed. She was able to find a rhythm in the battle - shield, mace, mace, shift feet, shield, mace. She was no longer waiting for the opportunity to deliver a devastating strike but was intent on creating that opportunity.

'WHEN IS A SHIELD NOT A SHIELD?' the voiceless voice asked.

_'When it's a weapon?'_ 'Trissa said, her reply more a question than an answer, dimly remembering a phrase from the _Annals_.

'SO, USE IT!"

Her opponent to her left was battering at her shield. Her left arm was heavy and sore. A slight misstep on the part of the skeleton allowed 'Trissa to bring her shield up hard against its chest and tattered armour. She'd done that a half-dozen times already, all too little effect. But this time she immediately drove the shield's rim upward hard and fast into the undead warrior's chin. The blow shattered its jawbone and snapped its skull over to one side. The thing went stumbling back, its head wobbling, held onto its skeletal frame by a few tendons and dried sinew.

That small success cost her as the sword wielded by the undead thing in front of her slashed at her right side. Her armour held but she feared that a rib had cracked.

'LET YOUR ARMOUR DO WHAT IT IS SUPPOSED TO. IT'S NOT FOR SHOW.'

'_That hurt!'_ 'Trissa cried out.

'BOO-HOO!'

A soft prayer slipped between her lips and before she knew it, she had healed her injury.

'Trissa saw a third undead warrior approaching and realized that she had to act quickly. Using her shield and mace against the skeleton still facing her, she maneuvered it to the edge of the open grave. A flurry of blows and a kick sent it tumbling into the empty grave.

She quickly scanned the circle. Soranyll was being hard pressed by two undead. Torlin was facing off against a third, and holding a flaming black sword? Not such a coward after all? Thalweg had slid the lid of the coffin aside and was reaching inside it. Across the circle and between two sarsens she saw Beatrix and Dorcen waving and yelling. It looked like they were banging their fists against a wall, but there was no wall. Except that at each strike a flash of rainbow colour flared for a space of a quick breath then dissipated. She spun about and looked at the sarsens closest to her. A faint shimmering extended from them to their neighbouring stones. She looked back at the mercenaries and could easily determine from Dorcen's gestures, now focused on her, that no one could pass between the stones to aid the four within the circle.

Beatrix's hand signals were also quite easy to decipher. She pointed back to the pass behind her, then flashed ten no, twenty no, thirty fingers at her, followed by drawing one finger across her throat. Not good!

Oops. Time to fight! She turned to meet the third undead.

'Trissa blocked her opponent's sword and sent the creature reeling back with a vicious forehand swing of her mace. She noticed the skeleton she had knocked into the nearby grave had clambered halfway out, and the one with its skull hanging by shreds of flesh had righted its head by holding it in place with a boney hand. It hefted its sword and started to march towards her.

'_This needs to end!'_

'SO? END IT!'

'_Me? I don't have that power!'_

'POWER COMES FROM FAITH.'

'_I have faith in my Goddess!'_

'NOT IN US. IN YOURSELF.'

The Paladin-Elect stepped back, swiftly spun to her right, and with a powerful backhand stroke sent the skeleton warrior with the near severed head to the ground. It landed in a heap of shattered bone and rusty armour, its skull bouncing several yards away.

Turning quickly to face the third skeletal warrior, 'Trissa dropped her mace. It swung from her wrist on its lanyard. Awkwardly clutching her holy symbol in her left hand, which also still held her shield, she thrust her right hand forward toward the undead thing.

The power of her Goddess flowed through the young Paladin. She had felt this power before - when deep in prayer, when casting an orison, when walking through the silent, dark hallways of the Motherhouse with the chanting of the priestesses echoing off the carved stone walls. But this time the power was far stronger. What had previously only been hinted at was now clear. That power, the Goddess' gift, had always been there for the asking. It had nothing to do with being worthy. Few mortals were. But being undeserving of a gift did not mean that it could not be gratefully, gracefully, and humbly accepted.

"By the power of my Goddess, I command you. Begone and be at peace", she whispered fiercely, Turning the undead warrior.

Whatever malign force had ensorcelled that poor, long dead elf, was dismissed. The skeleton instantly turned to dust, the remnants of its armour and sword falling to the ground.

'Trissa faced the skeleton that had just cleared the edge of the grave and had fixed its hollow eye sockets upon her.

Once again, the Paladin intoned, "By the power of my Goddess, I command you. Begone and be at peace". This time she spoke the words loudly, dispensing the same fate to that undead creature.

She faced the Kings tomb, hefted her mace, and strode toward it.

* * *

**A**lthough held to one spot by enchanted plants, the trapped undead warrior was giving Torlin a tough fight. The former Elven Guardsman had been a great swordsman when alive, and much of that skill was still present. Torlin's mastery over Thalweg's sword's Flame Spirit had been short lived. It had withdrawn and was refusing to assist him further. At least it wasn't fighting him. For that small mercy, Torlin tossed out a quick 'thank you' to _Bes_, his Mulhorandi grandfather's token deity.

The thief stepped back from the deadly elven blade and decided to leave the skeleton for another to deal with when Thalweg's voice startled him.

"Neither of us seems to be suited to the others' role. You cannot manage my blade and I could not remove the pendant from the dead king's body. Give me my sword back."

Torlin tossed the heavy blade to Thalweg, who stood a few feet behind him. The Baron deftly caught it, slashed the air a few times, then marched towards the undead Elven Guardsman. The blade flared to life, ebony flames rippling along the blade. It took only a few passes from the Baron's sword before the skeleton was severed in two. With two quick stabs Thalweg turned the boney remains to ash.

The Baron then charged the skeleton on Soranyll's left, driving it back several paces. He cast a quick look at the elf. The Lore-Master looked pale and sported a nasty wound on his left arm, but the look in his eyes told Thalweg all he needed to know.

"Damn it, elf! These are not your brethren any longer! Their souls are long gone. Let their bodies rest, too! You're stalling, and I am not going to do your work for you."

Thalweg sheathed his blade and walked back to the center of the circle where 'Trissa and Torlin had gathered by the King's tomb.

* * *

**S**oranyll silently cursed Thalweg, not for deserting him, but for making the elf face the truth. Watching Theranduil die again, or what had been Theranduil die, had deeply affected the elf. The sight of shining elven blades turned against him was unnerving. These things had been his friends. He should have died with them. Almost had. And now, Karistides' horrors were trying to kill him. Him and his new, human friends.

That insane mage was not going to win!

Soranyll sprang back and away from the two skeletons he had been fighting. In the blink of an eye his sword changed back to a short staff. Evoking _Battering Ram_, he thrust the staff towards the two undead, sending the boney cadavers slamming back into a sarsen stone. The ghostly image of a large ram's head with curled horns could be seen pinning the skeletons to the stone column. He pulled the staff back, allowing the two undead warriors to briefly regain their feet before battering them into the unyielding stone again. And again. And again. Only after the undead had been reduced to scraps of armour and several thousand bone splinters, did he relax and dismiss the spell.

The elven mage noticed Dorcen and Beatrix hammering at what appeared to be wall of force suspended between sarsens. One problem at a time. He looked to the center of the circle and saw his three companions standing by the King's open tomb, watching him. He could see no undead anywhere.

Striding to the tomb, Soranyll peered anxiously inside it. "The pendant?"

"Around the King's neck", Torlin assured him. "Luthor was loathe to remove it as it was glowing. That glow faded once the last of the undead were killed…slain?... disposed?"

Soranyll gazed down at the King's remains, mumbled something in elvish then reached into the tomb and delicately removed the pendant. He hung the gold chain about his own neck, the pendant, a piece of onyx four or five inches in diameter and carved in the likeness of a skull, hanging just below his sternum.

"Baron Thalweg, Torlin. Please, reseal the tomb? I will deal with the wall that keeps us trapped here. Lady Lutrissa, if you could say a prayer for Tristan? Thank you."

The elf tuned and walked over to where Beatrix and Dorcen stood just beyond the sarsens.

"Wall", asked Torlin?

"Push", ordered Thalweg.

* * *

**T**he elf ran his fingers lightly along the shimmering restraint. Rainbow hued light flared where he touched the force wall. His fingertips tingled. A stronger push against the wall sent a jolt of electricity along his hand. Dorcen shook his head, pointing to his own shoulder and rubbing it.

The elf looked back at the twelfth grave. The undisturbed resting place of Karistides. Focusing his will, Soranyll cast _Dispel Magic_ unsure if, even centuries later, he had attained power equal to the Royal Mage's.

Where the air had been still, he now felt a cool mountain breeze on his face. Beatrix extended a finger towards the elf, tapping him on the chest. She smiled.

"Good. Thought we were going to have to dig a tunnel under it to get you out!" She said, "I need to speak with the Baron."

She and Dorcen brushed pass the elf and hurried over to their employer, who had just finished resetting the tomb's lid with the thief's help.

* * *

'**T**rissa walked over to the elf. She raised a hand and gestured at his wounded arm. "With your permission?"

The elf nodded.

She touched him.

Soranyll felt a warm tingling spread out over his arm and shoulder. The pain eased, then disappeared. He flexed his arm. There was no discomfort. It had been completely healed.

"Thank you, Paladin."

"You are most welcome, Lord Soranyll. But you use an honorific for me that I have not yet earned. The proper term is Paladin-Elect. I may only be called 'Paladin' once I have earned my goddess' favour."

"How is that 'favour' shown", asked the elf?

"In several different ways. The appearance of a celestial mount, a change in the recipient's appearance, a gift of a special weapon or ability. Why do you ask?"

"Look to your shield", replied Soranyll, moving back to Tristan's tomb.

'Trissa slipped her shield off her left arm and regarded its reverse side. Straps and reinforcing metal braces were all she saw. It was the same as it had always been. Turning it over, she caught her breath when she saw the shield's face. Her shield had been plain, unadorned, as she'd not yet earned the right to carry any image or emblem upon it. It had been that way this very morning. But now the entire circumference of the shield rim was engraved with the image of intertwined vines. The pattern was almost identical to the vines that entwined about the crest on her family's coat of arms. Moreover, the entire surface of the shield was now stippled while earlier it had been smooth. She stood, staring at the shield, lost in a combination of thought and prayer.

* * *

**T**halweg and Torlin hurried to the south side of the pass, following Beatrix. She pointed down the valley along the east flank of the mountain.

"As I said. Twenty plus riders with an advance unit and another few bringing up the rear. No pennons. I'd say mercenaries. Not my old outfit."

"Blue Blades then", guessed Thalweg. "It's a steep ride, as we know. They will have to dismount as did we. An hour before they get here?"

"At least that", replied Torlin.

"Let's go see Dorcen's bad news", said the Baron.

The two men joined Soranyll at the north side of the pass. The elf, Dorcen and Jimkar were all peering intently down the steep mountainside. A stiff breeze blew up from the valley carrying an odd odour.

"Smells a bit like… Orcs?"

"Goblins, mi'lord", replied Jimkar.

"A group of them are coming up that trail. The last of them just entered those trees", stated Dorcen. "Once out of the trees, it is short hike up to this pass. Maybe a half hour before they're here."

"How many", asked Soranyll?

"Hundred, maybe two-hundred", answered Dorcen.

"Two-hundred forty odd", corrected Jimkar.

"What?" This from Thalweg. "That's no raiding party, that's a small army!"

"Res said the raids were increasing in frequency and severity", Torlin reminded the Baron. "Except, once over this pass, there is not much to raid."

"It may be that our presence at his site has been noticed by the goblins", said the elf. "This is where one of their chieftain's and thousands of goblins died. They might consider this holy ground."

Thalweg swore.

"We've got our prize", the Baron said, pointing to the pendant around Soranyll's neck. "Let's get out of here. I've no wish to take on goblins or twenty odd mercenaries. If they are the Blue Blades, then they will be ready for us this time. Any ideas about a retreat, Soranyll?"

The elf pointed to faint trail along the western mountain's flank.

"Our scouts said that the trail, really more of a goat track, lead down the valley and to the main road leading west to the Moorlands. That was centuries ago."

"Torlin. Get everyone ready", ordered Thalweg. "We leave before the sun, such as it is, has shifted a finger span."

Thalweg gave the elf a sidelong glance. "If we could delay the goblins by a half hour or so, they would arrive at this pass at about the same time as our friends, the Blue Blades."

Soranyll smiled. "I think I can help with that."

The elf slung his staff on his back and cast a simple spell. It had a variety of names - _Fleet of Foot, Run, Speed, Jack-be-Nimble_ – and enabled the caster to move very quickly over rough terrain. As soon as the spell was cast Soranyll set off down the trail. He ran at a breakneck speed, jumping over rocks and sliding down scree with what appeared to be little effort and no concern for injury. In next to no time he had reached the stunted woods that clung to the mountain side. Hardly out of breath, he quickly cast a variant of _Plant Growth_, better known as _Overgrowth_.

The trees and shrubs along the trail shook, leaves rustling, as they grew taller and thicker. Branches overlapped and entwined. In the space of only several long, slow breaths, the trail had become thickly overgrown and near impassable.

Turning back up the trail to the pass he ran uphill almost as swiftly as he had run down. He arrived slightly winded at the pass to find his party, excepting the thief and their horses, had started up the goat track.

"So", inquired Torlin?

"Let us hope that both parties arrive at this pass at the same time", said Soranyll. "That should prove an interesting meeting and give us the time we need to get back on the main road and cross Long Lake."

"Not what I meant", stated the thief, indicating the sarsen circle with a toss of his head. "You alright?"

"No", answered the elf, truthfully.

"Good", responded Torlin. "No one should be after that! This Royal Mage, Karistides? Using his own men, your men, like that. Twisted."

"Yes", averred the elf.

The elf and the thief guided their horses along the narrow track, following the others. Neither of them took notice of the large owl sitting on a tilted sarsen stone, watching them pass by.


	17. Stormy Weather

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**Chapter 17 – Stormy Weather**

**Thanks to those of you who have stuck this far with my story. Almost at the end.**

The mountain track was treacherous. Where the trail was not talus or scree covered it wound along precipices. A slip could mean death. They walked the horses along the narrow path.

The sun had moved only a short distance across the sky when, looking back, Torlin saw a thin plume of green smoke rising from the pass. He pointed it out to Soranyll. The elf nodded.

"I suspect the Sorceress is responsible for that. She is either fighting the goblins, or the brigands unearthed another of Karistides' surprises."

After a nerve-wracking hour making the perilous descent the group came across a larger, well-worn path which they followed downhill and to the west. Several miles later, that trail joined with the western road leading to the Moorlands.

Thalweg halted the party. "Drink, eat, rest. We start out again, soon. We have to be across Long Lake before nightfall."

"Luthor", Soranyll motioned to the Baron "I do not recall any lake, yet I am certain this is the path we followed when we fled with the crown."

"What else do you recall of the route you took?"

"We passed by a snow field. And we crossed a small river that flowed south out of a wall of ice that towered high above us. The river spilled over a cliff that was hundreds of feet high. We then slowly descended to the moors."

"A lot can change in several centuries, my friend. An elf should know that. This road, called the 'Moor Road', leads to a long narrow valley. Ice may have once filled it, but those cliffs of ice you saw are now many miles to the north, or so Marshall Tor says. The little river is now a long, deep, cold lake that fills the valley. There's a ferry we can use to cross it. The lands to the west are dangerous, but hunters, trappers, wood cutters, and some farmers eke out a living. Goods are transported by wagon and the ferry, to Silver Tree."

"Why a ferry", queried the elf?

"Takes too long to go around the lake", responded Thalweg. "Ice and stone to the north, and a waterfall and cliffs to the south. Res said the lake is too damn cold to swim. If a man or horse fell into the water, he said he'd bet against them getting out."

Soranyll thanked Luthor for the information, turned and looked to his tack. Torlin approached the elf, nodding his head in 'Trissa's direction.

"She's talking to herself, again. And is fascinated by her shield. Is she alright?"

Soranyll looked at the Paladin. 'Trissa was leaning against a rock, studying the front of her shield. Her lips were moving but neither man could hear what she was saying.

"When you have a moment, take a look at her shield", said the elf. "Something odd has happened…."

Soranyll stopped speaking, a confused look crossing his face. He slowly raised a hand and pointed at 'Trissa.

Torlin turned to look at what had caught the elf's attention. His eyes widened, not quite believing what he was seeing.

'Trissa had placed her shield down on the ground and was taking advantage of the halt to divest herself of some equipment, and to cool off. She had absently removed her helmet and was shaking out her hair.

Torlin walked over to the woman. He ran his eyes over her, her mount, and her equipment, noticing the altered shield. Pointing at the shield, he looked at her and raised his eyebrows in question.

"I, … I know", she stammered. "Or rather, I do not know what has happened. During the battle with the undead, my Goddess… why are you looking at me like that? What? Is something on my head? Oh Goddess, is it a spider?"

Torlin pulled out a small, round hand mirror from a pocket in his jerkin, handing it to her.

Puzzled, 'Trissa took it and looked apprehensively at her reflection.

Her hair had been a uniform brown that morning. Had been brown all her life. Most of it was still brown except for a three-finger wide silver-white streak that started above her left temple and ran along the side of her head to the back.

"**What the f…!**"

* * *

**T**halweg's party arrived at Long Lake as late afternoon was becoming evening. A dilapidated ferry, capable of holding three or four large wagons, was tied to a rickety wooden jetty. Large geared wheels, supported by wooden beams, sat on the shore of the lake behind the ferry. The beams were anchored to the bedrock that outcropped at this point on the shore. Chains ran from the rear of the ferry up and around the wheels and back down to the ferry where they entered a low wooden housing that ran the length of the transport ship. Chains could be seen running from the front end of the ferry into the water.

"We will only have decent light for another hour or two", stated Thalweg. "We need to get across this lake and disable the ferry so that whomever is behind us…".

"'Whoever'", corrected Beatrix.

"…whether Blue Blades or goblins, cannot follow."

"Where's the ferry crew", Soranyll asked?

Thalweg pointed to his mercenaries. "Right there."

"Jimkar! Flint!" Shouted the Baron. "We've ten riding horses, four pack horses with gear, and us. Balance the load! You six will be manning the gearing cranks. They're those small wheels with handles sticking out of the housing. The chain runs through the housing, under the water, and across the lake to the far side. Operating the cranks moves the ferry along the chain. It's some brilliant dwarven gearing mechanism, or so I was told. The Marshall says it works, but you'll need to put your backs into it!".

Thalweg turned to his companions.

"We four will man the corners of the ferry. Keep a watch out for rocks. And I'd not trust that railing around the sides. Whole thing looks…unseaworthy."

The horses were skittish approaching the dock, but under Jimkar's handling, aided by Flint and Toto, they calmed. The crew managed to load all the animals and gear in a third of an hour. Torlin and the elf unmoored the ferry; the four mercenaries and two ex-convicts started pushing the hand cranks. Slowly, but with increasing speed, the ferry left the dock and moved out onto the lake, heading for the west shore. Torlin was at the stern of the ferry with Soranyll. The thief dipped a hand into the lake's frigid waters; it instantly went numb.

They were a couple of hundred yards out from the jetty, almost a third of the way across the lake, when the thief chanced to look up and behind them.

"Soranyll", Torlin addressed the elf. "Was Karistides full bearded, with a pronounced widow's peak, and a hooked nose?"

"Yes", answered the elf, giving the thief a puzzled look. "How did you know that?"

"Think that might be him?" The thief asked, pointing up into the sky.

Soranyll looked up and froze in place, his eyes widening in alarm.

A towering mass of black and gray cloud hung just above the shore they had quit. The cloud bank loomed hundreds of feet above them. While the edges of the clouds were in constant motion, billowing and churning, the central portion of the cloud mass was still and had the form of a giant human head. The face was that of a bearded human male, with lips in a sneer. Lightening flashed in the clouds over the apparition's head.

The sky dimmed, and the air was suddenly much colder. A powerful downdraft, originating from the cloud, blew from the near shore and across the lake. With an ear-splitting 'crack' a lightning bolt, launched from what appeared to be the cloud-image's mouth, split the sky and struck the water several dozen yards to the left of the ferry. The terrific clap of thunder and the loud hiss of water being instantly turned to steam, frightened the horses.

"Calm them down!" Roared Thalweg, pointing to Jimkar and indicating the horses.

"Soranyll, what in the Nine Hell's is that? The Royal Mage?" The Baron pointed to the giant face in the clouds. "I thought you said you killed him?"

"I did", yelled the elf, over the rising wind. "Centuries ago. But he seems real pissed off about that!"

"Long time to hold a grudge", observed the thief, unhelpfully.

Another lightning bolt rent the air, landing closer to the ferry and startling the horses, again. The animals' fear was growing. Shifting as far as their halters and hobbles allowed, their combined weight and movement started the ferry rolling.

The elf drew his staff. Using it as a focus, he cast a spell. The ten horses nearest him stopped their nervous shuffling and whinnying. They now stood stock still. Not even an ear twitched.

At the front of the ferry, Toto stopped his cranking, pulled an object out from beneath his tunic and held it aloft. The animals nearest him calmed and returned to their normal horsey state.

Another crack of thunder; another bolt. This one struck the starboard edge of the ferry making the boat pitch. Smoldering wood, smoke and ash were all that was left of twelve feet of railing and some deck timbers.

Thalweg and Torlin ran to unmanned cranks and started furiously rotating the handles.

"Faster, dammit. Faster!" Thalweg bellowed.

Soranyll drew his fire wand from his belt. Brandishing it at the cloud form of Karistides, he yelled in Elvish. "When did you become a weather wizard, you bastard?"

The wind had strengthened, and waves were now washing over the ferry's stern. 'Trissa looked up at the looming cloud-being then turned to look at the far shore. They were more than halfway across, but with lightning bolts now striking the craft she doubted that they were going to make it to the landing. She looked down at her shield, muttered a prayer and moved to the midpoint of the ferry. Clambering onto the central housing and facing into the wind, the Paladin stood tall and fierce.

"Whatever you are, know this! I am the vessel of a Righteous Power", she shouted into the stiffening wind. "You will not prevail!"

"Trissa! Get down from there!" Torlin shouted at the woman.

"Paladin. Please, heed him"' cried out Soranyll.

Lightning flashed from the sky. The Paladin's shield caught the deadly bolt, deflecting it out over the water.

"Hah! Try that again, Mage! We defeated your undead minions. We have no fear of you!" The Paladin shouted at the sinister cloud. The cloud faced image of Karistides scowled as more lightning and thunder ominously flashed and rumbled.

"Ilmater's wounds! Don't taunt him!"

"Have no fear, little thief", said 'Trissa. "My Goddess is with me!"

"It is the rest of us I'm worried about", muttered Torlin.

Two bolts arced out of the towering clouds, one striking the Paladin's raised shield, forcing her to a knee, the other incinerating a front corner of the ferry. The boat rocked violently, tossing Dill and Dorcen off their feet.

"If a few of those hit us amidships, this scow will sink", yelled Thalweg. "Keep at it! Faster!"

Flint was exhausted. He paused to catch his breath. His back ached and his hands were cramping. He looked forward, trying to see how much farther they had to go. The boy could see nothing over the gear and horses, except that the small hill on the far shore he had noted earlier was now much nearer! What was that?

"There! On the hill! Someone is waving at us!"

The boy pointed to a figure standing on the bald hillside. Everyone on the ferry, excepting Soranyll and 'Trissa, looked up. It was hard to make out what they were seeing as there was nothing near the figure with which to estimate its size, but it looked to be a man who was wildly waving his arms in the air.

"What now", Thalweg asked of his gods?

The wild and enthusiastic waving stopped. A dust devil, as tall as the figure on the hill, formed and started rapidly advancing down the hill. As it moved, it grew in height, width and speed. By the time it had reached the lake shore it exceeded a hundred feet in height and was some twenty or thirty yards wide at the top, and ten or so yards at its base. Faster than the fastest horse in the Baronies, and much faster than the ferry, the growing tornado spun across the lake straight at the lightning spewing mass of cloud that hung over the east shore.

The face-in-the-clouds took no notice of the whirlwind, its sole focus being the ferry. The tornado lifted itself high into the air and ripped through the hovering cloud bank, shredding it to pieces. The face that resembled a long dead mage dissolved into tattered, wispy streamers of grey haze. In a moment, both the clouds and tornado had dissipated leaving an unobstructed view of the east ferry landing framed by mountains and hills that were bathed in the soft light of a setting sun.

"Well met, whoever you are", shouted Thalweg, looking up at the hill. But the knoll was bare. The figure was gone.

"Let's dock and unload", ordered the Baron. "Then we'll have to cut these chains. Can't have Blue Blades, or goblins, pulling the ferry back for their use."

Within a half hour they had docked and unlade gear and horses, the animals now recovered from whatever Soranyll and Toto had done to them.

Torlin and Dill worked on the chains, finding and breaking weak links. The ferry, no longer connected to its gearing system, would stay docked on the west shore until the chains were fixed.

"We'll move a bit west and camp for the night", said Thalweg. "Tomorrow we start the long ride down to the Moorlands. Move out!"

* * *

A quick half mile from the ferry landing, the party entered a small clearing which had unmistakably been used by other travelers as a campsite. A few rickety lean-tos still stood and several firepits were scattered across the open space. Thalweg sent Dorcen back to the ferry with instructions to keep a watch for any goings on across the lake.

As was their usual routine, Jimkar and Flint saw to the horses and gear. Toto and Dill set up the small tents for those who wanted them; Beatrix gathered wood for a fire.

Thalweg signaled his companions to join him at the western edge of the clearing.

"We need to talk about some things"' he said ominously. "First, is Karistides really dead? Can't have an insane mage dogging us. Soranyll?"

The elf's brow was furrowed. "I believe that everything we have seen - the undead elvish bodyguard, the invisible wall that trapped us in the sarsen circle, and the lightning attack - were all traps or banes created by Karistides before he died. They were set up to protect the King's body, and the pendant which we retrieved. If the lightning-cloud spell was consciously controlled by an entity, Karistides or another, then it would have reacted to the tornado before it was struck. We are now a long way from Karistides' grave. We should be safe from his curses."

"Which brings us to our new friend, or savior. The figure on the hill. Any ideas?"

Only silence greeted the Baron's query.

"Alright. Third, you my dear", he looked at 'Trissa. "You have undergone some changes. Lightning does not just glance off metal shields and armour. Leather and quilted under-padding or not, you should be dead. Glad you're not. It seems that the Red Knight, or Zelia as she is called in these parts, favours our quest."

'Trissa touched her hair. "Weeks ago, I swore allegiance to your cause, Luthor. Even though your lies about our real quest relieve me of any duty to you, it remains that the Soul Reaver is an evil that must be destroyed. I am not certain what is happening to me, but I believe my Red Lady wants me here. She seems to have an interest in seeing the True Crown returned. But I do not promise that she petitions for Duke Storm."

"The Lord of Battles be praised." The Baron nodded his head to the Paladin.

"What about you, Torlin", asked Thalweg, turning to the thief? "You did your part and got us the pendant. You're now free to go where you wish."

"Oh, how kind of you, mi'lord", responded the thief, sarcastically. "Free to go where, exactly? I'm on the wrong side of an unswimmable lake. Which, even if I could cross, I'd likely find brigands or goblins waiting on the other side. And there is still a Guild price on my head. No. It is safest for me to stay with you. Anyway, I'm interested in seeing what other surprises our ... Paladin… has for us."

Soranyll smiled and held his hand out in front of the Paladin and quietly said, "He's staying."

'Trissa rolled her eyes and dug a coin out of her belt, handing it over to the elf. The mage smiled, placed the coin in a pocket in his robe, and held out his hand again.

"And he retrieved the pendant."

With poor grace the Paladin pulled out another coin and slapped it into the elf's palm.

"If there is nothing else, then we will set a watch for both the campsite and the lake shore. Then we need…to… Torlin, do I have your attention? What are you looking at", asked Thalweg?

"An owl", the thief said, pointing a finger behind the Baron and slightly above the man's head.

Baron, mage and paladin turned to look at where Torlin was pointing. A large owl was perched on a low branch of a massive, old oak tree about ten yards from the group.

The owl looked at the four people near its tree, bobbed its head, and hooted four times.

"Hoot-hoot-hoot-ooo."

"It's an owl", said Thalweg, dismissively.

"We've seen a lot of owls since Silver Tree", offered the elf. "But this owl is not what it seems."

"Whoo-whoo-whoo-er-you", hooted the owl.

The Paladin shook her head. "Did it just ask us…?"

"Who-are-you?" Asked the owl, in Common.

* * *

**T**he Paladin responded to the avian entity, offering it the slightest of bows. "If that is your tree, then this clearing is your front yard, and you would be our host. Etiquette dictates that you, the host, begin introductions".

The owl bobbed its head a few times, spread its wings, and jumped off its branch. The bird circled around their heads, as silent as a ghost. The creature's elegant feat was marred by its rough landing on the clearing floor. Instead of alighting with a similar grace and dignity to what it had shown in flight, the owl stumbled then tumbled, rolling end over end, coming to a stop in a heap of feathers, leaves and dust in front of the four.

As it struggled to rise, the large bird underwent a startling metamorphosis. Its legs and wings grew, stretching out and taking the form of a man's limbs. Talons became feet. Feathers flowed and readjusted themselves, forming a cloak that hung over the skinny, bent and mostly naked body of an older human male. It, or rather he, wore a leather girdle. Odd tattoos adorned his body. His hands were gnarled and stained and twitched in a manner not unlike a small bird flapping its wings. The man wore several necklaces, bangles, and arm and leg bands.

The owl head grew larger and at the same time twisted into a human face. The beak became a hooked nose, the feathered head changed to a bald pate that sported a small, faded, leaf-covered, red woolen cap. The grotesque transformation seemed to stall as the man's eyes were changing. One eye was a normal appearing, blue human eye while the other retained the black circular pupil and yellow-orange iris of the strigiform.

The man swayed briefly, then steadying himself, reached up to his cap and pulled off a twig about four inches in length. Mumbling, he shook the twig several times. The companions watched in amazement as the twig grew bigger. The odd man stopped shaking the 'twig' once it had reached a height of about six feet and was some two inches in diameter. Grasping what was now a staff for support, the old man straightened. Popping sounds came from his back and neck. Torlin and 'Trissa winced.

"Ah. Ah, yes… that is…that is…" Before he could finish his sentence, the strange fellow started coughing, then retching. In a last paroxysm, he coughed up something that he spat out on to the ground. Small bits of fur and bone stuck out of the object. Soranyll was certain he could see a mouse tail in what was a regurgitated owl pellet.

"That's better'', the man said in an oddly accented Common.

"I am Ansen. Ansen Beekeeper. Druid of the Eastern Forest, Servant of The Green, at your service." He inclined his head to 'Trissa.

Thalweg stepped forward and introduced himself and his three companions.

"Know that I have followed you since Silver Tree. Heard a lot. Saw more. Wasn't sure about the names", stated the old man.

"It was you on the hill? You defeated the Royal Mages' spell?" Asked Thalweg.

"Yes", replied Ansen. "The Paladin was holding her own, but your ferry would not have lasted. He is devious, isn't he? Waiting until you were out on the lake before striking!"

"Wait", interrupted Soranyll, his tone, incredulous. "He 'is' devious? Karistides is alive?"

"Hmm?" Ansen's attention seemed to have wondered from the conversation. "Oh, yes. Yes. Alive. Well, no. No, he is not alive. Not as we. But still in this world, in a way. Know what I mean?"

"No, I do not know what you mean! Is Karistides alive or dead?"

"Both. Neither", offered the Druid. "Hard to say."

"Undead", stated the Paladin. "He's a Ghost."

"Well, yes. In a way. But no", replied Ansen. "Whatever he was, he is now a restless, malevolent spirit that plagues these parts. Ghost? Lich? Wight? You are not the first adventurers to face his undead elves. But you are the first to defeat them. Well done!"

Showing his approbation for that deed, the druid rested his staff in the crook of an arm and clapped his hands, nodding at each of them.

"It appears that I have one last task to complete as a member of King Tristan's Elven Bodyguard", declared Soranyll. "This time the bastard will stay dead!"

"First, the Soul Reaver", commanded Thalweg.

"Of course, Luthor", agreed the elf. "Karistides has waited for centuries. He and I can both wait a little longer before settling accounts."

"Soul Reaver?" Intoned Ansen. "Oh, that is not a good idea. No, no. Very powerful. Very old. Trapped here, you know? Its power spreads. The land to the west is dark now. Sick. Trees, stunted. Water bad. That thing is against Life. It eats up a little bit, nibbles away at The Green, every day!"

Soranyll looked at Thalweg, who nodded. The elf turned to the druid.

"It has something that we want back", stated the elf. "It is important to us. We have no intention of fighting it, if that can be avoided. But know this. Two of us have fought it before and survived. We are all willing to do what must be done to take back what is… ours."

"Hmm? I should, as your host, offer you food. But the number of mice needed to feed so many people…" The druid looked across the encampment, shaking his head.

"Perhaps we can play host and you can dine with us?" Asked the Baron.

"Oh, how very kind of you. Thank you", agreed the druid.

No one in the party had time to hunt in the last few days, so it was rations for dinner. The druid ate until his belly was distended, enjoying every bite of the hard tack, oat cakes and preserved fruits.

Dorcen, having been replaced by Jimkar as guard at the lake shore, gave his report to Thalweg.

"Three fires were lit on the far shore. Couldn't make out much but it all looked orderly. Not goblins, thet's fer sure."

"The Sorceress prevailed", observed Thalweg. "Well, it'll take a few days for her and what's left of her men to get around the lake and back on our trail."

"A day, maybe a bit less", said Ansen.

"A day, maybe a bit more", stated Soranyll at the same time the druid spoke.

Mage and Druid turned and glared at each at the other.

"You two would have a better sense of her abilities than I. A day. Damn! We've still got three- or four-days' hard travel to go. Soranyll, can you help us all move faster, as you did in Net?"

"No, Luthor. I cannot. One must practice under the spell's effects to become good at travelling both fast and safely. To cast it upon horses not used to such magic would be a disaster. They'd panic and likely hurt themselves, or us. I could have used the spell on my old mount, the one killed by the Sorceress, and I suspect Toto's and Torlin's animals would be alright. But no others."

"May I offer an alternative", asked Ansen? "I know a short-cut. It will take us to a farm that lies on the edge of the moors proper and is very near the area that has been sickened by the Reaver's blight. From there it would only be a day's ride to where the foul beast resides."

"Is the Sorceress aware of this short-cut", queried 'Trissa? "Could she track us?"

"No, no", the Druid smiled, shaking his head. "She is smart and might ascertain where and how we went, but it is beyond her powers to follow us using my route."

Thalweg looked across the fire at Torlin, who nodded.

"We may take you up on that offer Druid Beekeeper", answered Thalweg. "We will speak more on it tomorrow?"

Torlin jumped in before any other member of the party could speak. "Good Druid. You obviously know of the Soul Reaver, and are familiar with the Sorceress, and the undead Royal Mage, Karistides. Your Eastern Forest seems plagued by evil. Is it not your duty to seek out and destroy it?"

"Hmmm? Oh, yes. Yes. Well, no. Not really. Hmmm, it is complex, but also very simple. Do you see?"

"Um, no. I do not", answered the thief.

"Ah. Then let me explain", responded Ansen. "Good, evil, right, wrong. Opposites in the civilized world. Your world. But out here, in Nature, in The Green, such concepts are not so relevant. Karistides occupies a small mountain pass and his entire existence is about defending the resting place of a long dead King. He is mostly unaware of much else except that which passes before his grave. His influence has stained that area to the extent that few now dare to go that way. Most have forgotten that a pass exists up that mountain. And fewer know that that is where a king was laid to rest."

"As for the Sorceress", continued the Druid. "She steals. Preys upon all who cross her path. But she affects Nature hardly at all. We go our separate ways, she and I."

"Yet you'd save us from both of them, Sorceress and Mage", observed 'Trissa. "Why?"

"The Reaver is an evil that must be destroyed! You might have the power, the strength and the cunning to do it. Others have tried. All have failed. I do try to warn them, the adventurers. The looters. The misguided. Few listen."

"Wish you'd been around to warn us the last time we entered the Moors", said Thalweg, wistfully.

"Alas. I was elsewhere when you came by all those years ago. There are other matters that take a druid's time besides demons. Anyway, you'd have not listened."

Thalweg stood, stretched and yawned.

"If there is nothing else then let's get some rest. We're up before first light. Usual watch rotation except the second man is at the lake shore", ordered the Baron.

"You are welcome to a tent for the night, good Druid", offered Beatrix.

"Oh, thank you. Thank you, Miss." Ansen reached over and placed a wiry hand on the mercenary's thigh.

The woman slapped it away. "Not what I meant!"

She glared at the druid, stood and stiffy walked away from the fire.

The druid shrugged, rose from his place by the fire and toddled off to the huge oak at the edge of the clearing. With a shrug of his shoulders and some peculiar hand motions, he smoothly transitioned into an owl. The large bird sprang up onto a branch, closed its eyes and turned its head to face backwards.

As the other retired to tents or opened their bedrolls to sleep on the ground near the fire, Torlin approached the elf.

"Why do you assume that Toto's and my horses could better tolerate your spells?"

With a nod of his head Soranyll indicated the ex-prisoner. "He used a totem on the ferry to calm the horses. His knowledge of the land, and his animal handling and foraging skills that he has shown this last week, suggest to me that he is or was a Pathfinder, perhaps even a Ranger. I would bet that through either skill or the use of that totem, he could manage an ensorcelled mount."

"And my horse", asked the thief? "I have no such skills."

Soranyll chuckled. "Hardly necessary with an animal like you are riding!"

Seeing Torlin's look of apparent confusion, the elf lowered his voice, leaned over to the thief and whispered. "Your mount's almost un-natural speed? It's as sure-footed as a mountain goat. Never stumbles, no matter the terrain. It has the endurance of an ox. Come on, man! I am a mage. I can detect magical forces at work. Your secret is safe with me. But I am surprised Toto or Thalweg, both experienced horsemen, have not caught on to its peculiar nature."

Soranyll left the bemused thief and sought his blankets. Torlin looked across the clearing to where the horses were staged within a roped-off ring, set up by Flint and Toto. His mount was grazing, looking every inch a horse. Annoyed that the elf was having a laugh at his expense, Torlin spread out his sleeping furs. It would be his watch all too soon.

* * *

**S**oranyll tapped Torlin lightly on the shoulder.

"You awake?" The elf asked.

"Yup."

"Did you know that you sleep more soundly out of doors than you do in cities and inns?"

"I sleep even better at sea", mumbled the thief, rising and shaking the remnants of a very pleasant but undefined dream from his mind.

The predawn light, that gentle glow that heralds a new day, was touching the sky. Torlin could still see some stars.

The thief saw that most of their gear had been packed, and he could make out Toto and Flint at the far end of the clearing, saddling the remaining horses. He decided against asking the elf anything more regarding his mount. There would be time later, if they survived their meeting with the Soul Reaver, to inquire as to exactly what kind of horse he had stolen from the Guild.

Returning to the camp after relieving himself, Torlin passed by the Paladin. She had mounted her horse and was adjusting the reins when he noticed her shield.

"Tyr's left hand, woman! Again? What is your goddess playing at?"

'Trissa looked down at her shield. Even in the early morning light the new boss at the shield's center could be seen. The raised conical hub was a common feature of circular shields and aided in deflecting blows. 'Trissa's shield had never had one. Until this morning.

"It was not there last night", sighed the Paladin. "But this latest refinement greeted me this morning when I awoke. It seems that my Goddess approves of my actions yesterday on the ferry. My faith is rewarded, Torlin."

The thief looked up at the woman. As far as he could recall, this was the first time since they had met at the inn in Vintesse almost two weeks ago that she had addressed him by name. She usually addressed him as 'you' or 'thief', and often referred to him as 'the little thief' when speaking to Soranyll or Thalweg.

"I… I never thanked you for what you did. Outside of Silver Tree? The Blue Blade prisoner… I…" The Paladin was stumbling over her words. 'Trissa was aware of how overt her disdain for the thief had been. She had the decency to blush slightly and drop her eyes from his gaze.

"I am glad you were spared that, Paladin", said the thief. Torlin smiled at her, turned and walked over to his waiting horse.

'Trissa was surprised. Torlin's usual smile was more of a smirk, and there was often a hardness to his face, at least when he looked at her. But the smile he just now offered her was genuine. A kind, pleasant one that touched even the thief's eyes. Very nice, warm, brown eyes.

* * *

**T**he party gathered at the foot of the large oak tree from which Ansen, as an owl, had greeted the companions. The druid was standing beside the tree, staff extended and touching the tree. He appeared to be inscribing a pattern on the trunk.

Thalweg nodded to Toto who handed out long strips of cloth to each person. One of the small tents having been sacrificed to provide them. The druid stopped what he was doing and addressed the group.

"Wrap your horses' heads. Cover their eyes. '_Tree Stride_' can be disconcerting to humans, halflings and orcs. Doubly so to animals."

Soranyll explained to the assemblage. "The spell he is casting is also known as '_Pass Plant_'. We, our horses, and equipment will enter this tree. You will continue to walk until commanded to do otherwise. We will exit from another tree, also an oak, miles from here."

"And the Sorceress cannot do the same thing", Thalweg asked?

Soranyll shrugged. "I've never heard of anyone being able to move so many people and animals using this spell. This is very powerful Nature Magic. Even as Lore-Master, I'd not attempt doing this with more than three persons. If the Sorceress could do anything like it, she'd not be wasting her time as a brigand."

The Baron nodded to the druid. Ansen touched the tree trunk one last time and a fissure in the tough bark opened. It did not look large enough for a tall man, never mind a horse, to pass through. Smiling, the druid stepped inside the tree, vanishing from sight.

It took several minutes for Thalweg's crew and all the horses, now roped together, to pass into the tree. In the press to enter the dark passageway, it was difficult to determine the exact order of who had entered before whom. Torlin and Beatrix were the last two to leave the clearing.

The mercenary stepped aside, and with a bow to the thief, indicated the mighty oak.

"Age before beauty", she said.

Torlin barked a laughed. "A pearl before swine", he rejoined.

Beatrix also laughed but shook her head. "I am rear-guard today, sir. After you."

Torlin saluted the mercenary and walkd through the portal, followed a few moments later by Beatrix.

A slight breeze stirred the grasses in the clearing. Dropping his _Invisibility_ spell, Soranyll stepped out from behind a nearby tree. He walked back to the camp site, studying the ground closely. He noticed a small cairn of stones and twigs arranged in a definite and peculiar order. He scattered them with his foot. Returning to the large oak, he circled it, scanning the ground and the trunk. He found two fresh, parallel cut marks about three feet up the trunk.

Casting '_Heal Plant_', the elf watched as the tree sap stopped flowing and new bark grew over the cuts. The trunk now looked as it had before someone had taken a knife to it. Old, gnarled and unmarked.

The elf walked around the tree, glanced about the clearing one more time, then entered the cleft in the tree, following his companions on a most unusual journey.


	18. The Moorlands

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**This chapter has far too much exposition and not enough action. Sorry about that, but things needed to be 'said' and set-up.**

**Chapter 18 – The Moorlands**

**T**raveling through a forest using _Tree Stride_ was very different from what Torlin had experienced when Soranyll had moved them through the Ethereal Plane in Net. If one could sense 'earthiness', then that is what Torlin perceived during the time he spent 'walking' in and between oak trees across the Eastern Forest. He felt a solid, quiet, ancient presence all about him. He was lulled by the swaying of the trees, heard the leaves whispering to each other, and inhaled the ever-present smell of damp earth.

But he could see nothing. The darkness was total.

After a time, he heard the whinnying of horses and muffled voices. Then a bright light flashed, causing him to cover his face with his hands. The light became softer and turned into a blue sky. He found himself walking across a grassed yard, his companions in front of him. Turning to look back, he saw Beatrix walk out of a fissure that split the trunk of another giant oak tree. She too was shielding her eyes from the bright sun.

"Welcome to the Northern Marches westernmost farm!" Ansen spread his arms wide. "Goodman and Goodwoman Sert are our hosts. We will rest here for the night. Tomorrow, you meet your demon!"

"How far have we traveled", asked Beatrix? "It cannot be far. We only walked for what? An hour?"

"That's a setting sun", said Dorcen, pointing to the orb that hung just above a row of apple trees. "We've been 'walking' most the day!"

Ansen responded to Beatrix. "This is Sert Farm. You've traveled three days' distance of hard riding in less than a day!"

Thalweg laughed. "Let's see the Blue Blades better that!"

A sturdy looking, middle-aged man and woman, and four children, ranging in age from about ten to eighteen or so, had left their farmhouse upon hearing the arrival of people and horses. Ansen introduced the band to the Sert family.

According to the druid, Goodwoman Sert's family had farmed the rich soil of this part of the Northern Marches for decades. A simple homestead and subsistence farm had grown over three generations. Now, the farm's produce and grains were famed throughout the Marches. Apples, pears and cherries from the orchards, barley, and a wide assortment of root vegetables were transported to Silver Tree and surrounding communities.

"But it's been a tough go these last few years", said Goodman Sert, who was pouring a fine homebrew for his guests, now seated at the large dining table in the main house. "Hired help seldom stays the winter. They all head back to Silver Tree. Last few left 'bout a week ago. Could always use a few hands, even in winter. Never run out of work on a farm! But recently, that blight has crawled across the land an' we've had a give up some fields an' orchards to the north an' south. Another year or two o' this an'… well, jus' not sure 'bout what might come."

"I assume 'the blight', is what Druid Beekeeper mentioned to us? It is the un-natural influence of the Demon", stated Soranyll.

At the mention of a 'demon', the farmer and her husband made a sign to avert evil.

The druid nodded. "The caves you seek are directly west of here. Maybe a bit north, too? Well, northwest really. A bit of The Green is lost each year to that thing. It has an aura of _desecration_."

"Anyway", continued Ansen, addressing the Serts. "If we do not return in a few days, take your family and leave these lands. They will have failed and the evil will continue to spread."

Soranyll attempted to correct the druid. "We come to … take something back from it. We do not expect to fight it, much less defeat it!"

Ansen gave the mage a hard look. "Do you really think that you can avoid facing it, elf? I didn't take you for a fool."

Thalweg broke the growing tension between the elf and druid by interjecting. "Well, this is a much better method of travel to the Moors than the last time we came this way. Eh, Torlin?

"Yes", replied the thief. "Fifteen years ago, or so, we headed out from Talking Rock, so we came from the southwest. Weeks' worth of travel through heath and quicksand, stunted trees, bugs and lesser wyrms. We had no idea that such a fine enterprise as this was so near."

Thanking Torlin for his kind words, Madam Sert left to prepare dinner, a rich stew, for her many, unexpected but welcome, guests. The Sert's were used to feeding a large group of hungry farm workers each day, so the appearance of Thalweg's group caused them no concern as far as meals went. Their children helped set places and brought in food from a well-stocked pantry. Cheeses and fruits, smoked meats, and more ale appeared. Flint had a hard time keeping his eyes off Estella, the Sert's attractive fifteen-year-old daughter.

During supper Thalweg laid out his plans for retrieving the crown. First, he offered the mercenaries an additional one thousand gold pieces to accompany him into the caves. They had originally been hired to assist him to get to the cavern and then get him home by heading southwest through the Moorlands. He was adamant that they do not fight the demon, but only guard the party's flanks and rear should anything other than a demon be present it the cavern. They were to assist in looking for the crown. All four of the mercenaries and the two ex-convicts agreed.

"So, here's the plan", commanded Thalweg. "When we enter the cave, I lead. Followed by Soranyll and 'Trissa. You lot bring up the rear. There are several smaller passageways - side galleys and rooms - that circle around the main chamber. Stick to those. Lots of crap stashed in corners. And a few bodies, mostly animal remains – poor beasts probably wandered into the cave looking for food or shelter. We also found broken wooden planking, some chests, tools, and a several wall brackets for torches. Might have been a mine in the past. Stay out of the main chamber. Try to stay quiet! If it comes to a fight, we four will handle it."

Torlin was wondering how they were going to "handle it", when Soranyll stood up. All eyes turned to the elf.

"The pendant, which we retrieved from Tristan's tomb, may help us hold off the demon. It will protect the wearer, and those standing close to him, from the worst of its baleful influences. But I fear once we remove the crown, in effect stealing the item it has guarded for centuries, it will be free to attack us. It will likely focus its fury on the wearer of the pendant. It is my hope that between the Baron's sword, the Paladin's shield, and my spell staff, we can defeat it."

"What is our thief doing during this battle", asked 'Trissa?

"Oh, he will be the one wearing the pendant and keeping the demon's attention", said the elf nonchalantly.

* * *

"**I** really hate you", Torlin said.

"I know", replied the elf. "You think you should be leading the search for the crown."

"Makes sense. You do not know its exact location as it was your friend Silas who placed it in the caves. I know what it looks like from your drawings. You said it was in a small wooden box with the royal insignia stamped on the lid. It could be locked or trapped. Seems that I should be the one to try to recover it."

"After centuries I doubt that any lock or trap would still function, and the box has likely rotted away. Our hired help can do the hard work of searching", said Soranyll. "You and Luthor have survived the demon's attacks before. You and he are best suited to stand against it. Now, if you could use a sword as well as Luthor?"

The mage left the rest of that thought unspoken. The thief sighed in resignation. Torlin knew his own strengths and weaknesses. Using him as a focus for the demon, he preferred that word to the term 'bait', made sense. Maybe the amulet was more powerful than Soranyll suspected? It had been wrought by a very powerful mage. It was a small comfort, but Torlin clung to that thought.

Thalweg stood and raised a mug of the excellent ale to cheer his command. "You know your tasks. Get a good sleep. We leave when the sun is a hand over the horizon. I know Flint will appreciate that extra hour of sleep!"

They all laughed, knowing that the boy's biggest complaint was the early start to each day.

The group broke up, some wandering about the farmstead, others seeing to gear and weapons. Thalweg spoke for a few minutes with each of them, alone. Soranyll, 'Trissa and Torlin watched him from the large porch attached to the farmhouse.

"Part of his pre-battle ritual", asked the elf of the thief?

"Yes", replied Torlin. "Whether he commands a half-dozen or a hundred, he will find a moment to speak or acknowledge each man or woman under his command. Then he will take a ritual bath and plait his hair, invoking a prayer to Tempus for each strand braided. It is one of the few barbarian rituals he still honours."

"And your pre-battle rituals, Lady Lutrissa?" Inquired Soranyll of the Paladin.

"I have seen few battles, so have no set 'ritual'. But I will see to the needs of our party, providing any healing or words of comfort that I can offer", responded 'Trissa.

"Also", the woman continued, "a Paladin of the Red Lady is expected to keep themselves, their armour, and their weapons spotless. So, a clean-up, then prayers before bed."

"And you, Lord Soranyll?"

"Although I do sleep, and enjoy it, tonight I will be in 'reverie'. Then spells will be studied just after sunrise."

The elf and the Paladin looked at Torlin.

"Did you know that before a particularly dangerous job, thieves also take a bath", asked Torlin? "But it is not so that they are clean and in an acceptable state to meet their God or Goddess, should they fall in battle. Body odour can give away a thief's presence. So too, the smell of soaps or perfumes. And, as in the case of the Paladin, cleaning and care of one's tools and weapons are very important. It would be a terrible thing if a knife were not sharp enough to slit a throat."

The elf and Paladin both rolled their eyes, familiar enough with Torlin by now to know he was (mostly) joking.

"It seems that we all have a lot to do", remarked Soranyll. "Thalweg has been given a guest room in the farmhouse. I will stay out here on the porch. It gives me a good view of the corral and our horses. I expect Ansen to coop in the oak tree. Goodman Sert said that the new stable is comfortable. Hardly used. As the farmhands have left, the bunk house is empty. I suspect most of the crew will sleep there."

"Hmm. I will need somewhere quiet for my prayers", said 'Trissa. "Jimkar's snoring will not allow that! Oh. There go Beatrix and Toto to the barn. The way they have been casting glances at each other these last few days, I am not surprised."

The Paladin smiled, stood, and stretched. "Time to collect my gear and see what healing people and horses need, if any. And I must thank the Sert's for that wonderful supper. G'night."

Torlin also stood and bade the elf a good night. Grabbing his gear, he headed to the new stable. Peace and quiet had been a rarity these last few weeks. If this was to be his last night on Toril, and he believed it would be, then he wanted to be alone.

The stable smelled more of new lumber than horses. Two large double doors were situated in the middle of the east and west walls. There were also two mandoors, one each at the north and south ends of the building. The stable held eight stalls, all currently empty. There was a pile of straw sheaves at the north end and a small smithy at the south end. The forge was still lit.

Torlin found two large iron buckets that looked mostly clean and carried them over to the water pump located in the far corner. Whoever constructed the stable was smart to have placed a water source near to hand and inside the building. It was sheltered from wind and weather and might not freeze up in winter. Filling the buckets, he lugged them back to the smithy and placed them atop the forge.

The thief found and lit two lanterns, hanging them on posts, one near the smithy, the other several yards away in the center of the shed. He chose the cleanest stall and raked out the old straw, replacing it with new, dry straw. After tossing down his blankets and sleeping fur, he spread out his meagre belongings and closely inspected his knives. Only one needed a bit of work with a sharpening stone. Next, he examined his crossbow, tightening the cocking stirrup, cleaning the flight groove, and examining the limbs and string for wear. He loosened the trigger spring slightly then, shaking his head, tightened it back up again. Torlin had replenished his stock of quarrels - he still had four of the silver tipped bolts taken from the Guild thief in Vintesse - and he had appropriated a small quiver for them, while in Net.

Satisfied as to the state of his weaponry, the thief now turned his attention to his armour and clothing. He had made what repairs he could to the Shadow Cloak while in Sliver Tree. It was still effective, and he hoped it would give him an advantage in the dim caverns they were going to invade tomorrow.

The leather sleeved jerkin was fitting better. Nothing like a few weeks of hard riding, skulking about, and sleeping on the ground to slim down… a bit. He adjusted some of the ties.

Stripping off his clothes, Torlin picked up a small, fine, sharp blade, and a scrap of soap and a small towel he had taken from their accommodation in Silver Tree. He walked over to one of the now steaming buckets and using his improvised bath kit to good effect removed dirt, sweat, and what had become a scraggly grey and brown beard.

Returning to his stall, he checked his efforts in his hand mirror. Satisfied, he put on a pair of fine linen trousers he had expropriated from Master Gilner. He thought them far more comfortable than wool or coarse cotton!

Torlin walked back to the forge, lifted the bucket of warm, soapy water that he had used, carried it outside, and dumped it out on the yard. An owl called out. He wondered if it was Ansen on the hunt for mice.

The warm fall day had become a fine, cool autumn night. Looking up he gazed at the stars burning bright. The moon was the thinnest of slivers in the eastern sky. Thieves moon, he mused. Pine scented air filled his lungs. Was this his last night to enjoy all of this? Maybe Thalweg and the Paladin had the right idea. A prayer couldn't hurt. But offered to whom? Although he favoured Tymora when adventuring or thieving, he believed her to be too capricious for something as serious as fighting a demon. Selune was cold and moody. When they had been buccaneering, Valkur had come to their aid. But tonight, Torlin was nowhere near any large body of water. Would a sea god answer a prayer so far inland? Could he? He'd heard that Valkur was an allied with Tempus, Thalweg's preferred deity. So was the Red Knight, 'Trissa's patron. Goddess of battle tactics. Lady Strategy. Was their strategy for tomorrow sound?

Torlin bowed his head and sank to one knee. A prayer couldn't hurt.

"Bless us poor fools who go to do battle against evil. May our struggle bring glory to the Red Lady."

He waited, still kneeling, for some time. No voice from the heavens. No thunder and lightning. No god-inspired strategy came into his mind. It hadn't been much of a prayer he decided, standing. Hopefully, 'Trissa's efforts would be better received.

During his evening's long commune with both nature and a deity, Torlin had been aware of someone moving around inside the stable. It seemed he was not destined to get the peace he desired after all. Please, do not let it be Jimkar!

Entering the stable he saw the Paladin standing by the forge. She was naked, her back to the door, her skin wet from bathing. She was in the process of dropping a shift over her head and arms. As the door swung shut the shift fell, covering her form.

At the sound of the door closing the Paladin turned and greeted the thief.

"I see that you've taken the nicest room." She pointed to the where his gear was piled.

"I was here first", he noted, placing the bucket in a corner. "The troops are well?"

"Aye. No healing needed. A few joined me in prayer. Never a bad idea before a battle!"

Torlin nodded and passed by the Paladin on his way to the cozy stall he had claimed.

The light given off by the forge and by the lantern hanging on a nearby supporting timber, while not bright, was sufficient for 'Trissa to clearly see the thief's back as he passed by.

"Goddess!" She swore. 'Your back!"

"What? Torlin turned trying to see his own back. "What? Hope it's not a spider", he joked, not terribly worried.

"Those scars", she said. "I... I am sorry. That was rude of me. Although we have spent weeks together, shared rooms and campfires, I have always tried to give you and Lord Soranyll some bit of privacy. I had not noticed the scars."

"They do draw attention", responded the thief. "I try to keep them covered. They are distinctive, in this part of Faerun."

'Trissa nodded. "I have only seen similar scars on one other person. Luthor."

She touched the thief on his shoulder, turning him so that she could better see his back. The scars were old. There was no healing that she could offer him.

"Luthor said he 'earned' his in Calimshan." There was a question in the Paladin's statement.

"As did I", said the thief. "We were both galley slaves. Oar-mates. Our masters were quite free with their whips."

"Ah. Luthor said he led a mutiny."

"True", averred Torlin.

"I see. His story was a bit unclear as to how he did that while chained to an oar."

"Galley slaves are chained to their benches, not their oars", explained Torlin.

"So, the two of you led a mutiny. Odd how he failed to mention that you were there by his side."

"There were three of us who began the mutiny", Torlin stated. "And I am sure you have noted by now that any story the Baron tells always has himself as the hero."

"He is such a child", laughed 'Trissa. "I am not unhappy that he and I are… over. You must think me quite foolish."

"He is, and always has been, charming, selfish, and supremely confident in his own abilities. That can be attractive."

'Trissa laughed again, shaking her head. "You forgive him much, don't you Torlin? He does not deserve a friend such as you."

"No", agreed the thief, smiling a little. "He does not!"

The thief could not help but notice the shift 'that 'Trissa wore clung to her at certain places -shoulders, breasts and hips. The fabric was rather thin. He quickly brought his eyes up to her face before what he hoped was a casual glance became an uncomfortable stare.

"Any more changes to your shield?' He asked, trying to fill an awkward silence.

"Um. No. Well, maybe a bit." The question had caught the Paladin by surprise as her attention had wandered. She had been thinking that it was odd that the thief whom she had always thought of as a small man, was at least her own height. Maybe a bit more. He was also quite broad shouldered.

"You know, you appear very different now than when we first met, or when we were in Net", remarked 'Trissa.

"I know! You were always slouching or seated" she said accusingly. "And the greying beard is now gone. You look different."

"You're right", granted the thief. "A short, bearded man bears little resemblance to one clean-shaven and of middling height. The ability to change one's appearance is a common ploy to confound city watchmen, my victims, and the unobservant. Makes thieving easier."

"An interesting tactic." The Paladin leaned back against the wooden post that held a lantern. The light reflected off the striking silver-white streak in her hair. She had crossed her arms - an action that had the effect of pulling the fabric of her shift even more tightly across her breasts. A fact of which she was quite aware.

"Have you always been a thief?"

"Answer my question about your shield, and I will tell you", replied Torlin, crossing his own arms and trying to keep his eyes locked on her eyes. Her soft, big, brown eyes.

"Very well. An odd luster and faint lines are now visible on the shield face. I cannot make out what shape is there. Not yet. I suspect that after tomorrow's encounter with the demon the shield will be complete. That scares me."

"You have the favour of your Goddess. What is there to fear?"

"I am not sure! So much has happened, so quickly." She shook her fists in frustration. "At times I feel as if I am watching someone else with my body speak and act. Spells that I should be years away from mastering come effortlessly to me. My Goddess speaks to me as she has never spoken before. I can hardly sleep. It is confusing, exhilarating… and exhausting!"

'Trissa had stepped towards the thief as she spoke about her fears. She was a step away when she stumbled over a wash rag that had been dropped on the floor. Torlin quickly stepped forward and steadied her. Almost as quickly, 'Trissa caught herself from falling, grabbing Torlin by his outstretched arms. Sturdy arms.

"Too many spells, too quickly. As I said, exhausting. It catches up to you."

"You need sleep", declared Torlin, firmly.

"Aye" responded the Paladin. "Sleep restores one's spiritual energy as it does mental and physical energies. Or I could commune with my Goddess for the next hour. That too restores the vital energy I have expended battling undead elves and mages these last days."

Honeysuckle thought Torlin. She smells of honeysuckle. His grip on her arms loosened but he did not let go. He was quite aware of how close the two of them were standing. Almost embracing.

"There is also another way to revitalize that energy." 'Trissa looked at the thief, a coy smile on her lips, leaning slightly closer to him.

"Oh?" responded Torlin, dropping his hands to her hips.

'Trissa's left hand moved along his right arm up to his shoulder, while her right hand slid from his left arm onto his chest. She curled her fingers into thick chest hair. She'd expected it to be wiry, but it was soft.

"Lady Lutrissa…" It was a vain hope on Torlin's part that formality might delay his rising excitement.

"Too formal", the Paladin replied. Standing so close to the man, she was very aware of his growing interest.

"'Trissa", he countered, pulling her closer, their hips touching, her mouth a mere inch away from his.

"Tris", she whispered, pressing her nubile form against him.

**L**ater in the night, the owl, having finished its hunt, returned to roost in the large oak tree. Snoring echoed out of a tool shed, where Jimkar had been banished by his bunk mates. The elf, somewhere between reverie and dozing, stared out at the night from the farmhouse porch.

In the stable, two disheveled forms, half covered by blankets, lay in each other's arms. The Paladin turned her head to her companion and murmured, "Well met, sir!"

* * *

**H**encil, the youngest Sert child, stood on the front porch and rang a large hand bell. It was time for the morning meal. He continued to ring it until the tall elf shushed him. Sounds of movement came from bunkhouse and barn as the mercenaries rolled out of bed to face their fates this day.

"Ye gods", mumbled Torlin, waking and disentangling himself from the arms of the Paladin. "I supposed we should not be late for breakfast."

"We could be a few minutes late", suggested 'Trissa.

"A few minutes? Seriously?"

"Better hurry", she laughed.

* * *

**M**ost of Thalweg's band had finished their meal by the time 'Trissa and Torlin entered the farmhouse. A few left to saddle horses and pack gear, others remained seated, enjoying the homey atmosphere and warmth of the large kitchen for a few more minutes, delaying the inevitable. Thalweg and Ansen were in a heated but quiet debate about something at the far end of the long table. Soranyll, sitting about halfway down the table, looked over at the pair who had just entered the room. The thief and the Paladin sat down together at the table's near end and were quickly served their meals by Estella.

'Trissa sighed, shook her head, stood, and excused herself for a moment. She walked around the table and up to Soranyll, who was sipping a cup of wood milk. The Paladin slapped her hand down on the table, leaving a gold coin sitting in front of the elf. Blushing, she leaned over and whispered vehemently in his ear.

"I don't want to hear a word from you about this!"

The Paladin returned to her seat beside the thief and began to eat. Smiling, the elf picked the coin up and slipped it into a pocket in his belt. Too easy, he opined. He'd been around humans for centuries. It was too easy to make the younger ones bet against their own natures.

* * *

**S**everal minutes after leaving Sert farm the band of mercenaries crossed a small creek. That waterway, declared the druid, marked the end of the highland proper and the start of the moorlands. Within a few more miles the land hand changed from lush green forests interspersed with orchards and fields of berry plants, now picked clean by the Serts, to a land dominated by heath and heather. The trees were smaller here and large stretches of the land were boggy.

Ansen led them up onto a ridge made of cobbles, boulders and mosses that snaked through the moor in the direction they wished to travel. From this slightly elevated station they could see a vast expanse of bog and heath stretching to the south, west and north.

The druid pointed at the winding stone pathway. "We follow this. Dwarves call it a 'moraine' and says it was formed by ice, or some such. Unlikely, as the only ice is a hundred miles to the north. Hmph. Dwarves! You can see the blight easily from up here."

Looking across the moor, Torlin noticed withered and seared patches of ground. Within those areas the small trees of the moors were blackened and rotting. The blighted sections were larger to the west and north, coalescing into a sea of dead or wilted plants.

"The blight is an affect caused by the beast", said the druid. "Its preferred food is a human soul. Without those it must make do with devouring life, in any form. It has extended its malevolent influence, its _'desecration'_, across the land."

"Luthor", Soranyll addressed the Baron. "Was the moorland anything like this when you came through here a decade and a half ago? It certainly was not when I first visited centuries ago."

"We came from further west. But no, Lore-Master. It was not. We traveled through only moorland - short trees and bogs. Then we reached a range of low hills where the ground was a little drier. We spent a few days exploring several caves until we found the right one. Or rather, the wrong one. We weren't the first to enter those caves."

"Why has it only recently started to drain life from the moors?" Asked 'Trissa.

"Hmm, yes, yes. I see", mumbled Ansen. "If this Karistides trapped or forced a demon to act as a guardian for this treasure you seek, he could have manifested the creature and left it on the Prime Plane. Demons are long lived. It could guard this prize for centuries. Problem is, it would have to feed. Not daily like you or me. No, no. But over the centuries it would need sustenance. I doubt enough adventurers would come this way to fill its craving for souls. Not on a regular basis. And it could not wander far from its prize. And then only at night. Sunlight is poison to it. Hmmm. The other method, preferred by necromancers and demon-dealers, is to place a geas on a demon forcing it to materialize on the Prime Plane whenever the object it is guarding is in danger."

"If the latter were the case, then why has the demon remained? Shouldn't it have gone home after driving off our band?" asked Torlin.

"Possibly", responded Ansen, musing. "Once it had defended the treasure from your earlier incursion into the caves, it would return to its own plane of existence, ready to be recalled. But… something has prevented it from returning home. Unable to leave, it has started devouring life instead of souls. Ah! This explains why the blight started soon after your first visit here, Lord Baron."

There was a long silence as the riders plodded along the rocky trail.

"Goddess!" Exclaimed 'Trissa. "Is no one going to say it?"

Thalweg, at the front of the line, raised his hand and waved. "I'll let my man answer!"

Torlin swore, sat up straighter in his saddle and stated the obvious conclusion to their pondering.

"Something we did the last time we entered those caverns has prevented the Soul Reaver from leaving and going back to whatever particular Hell it resided in. We are responsible for the blight."

* * *

**T**he party stopped just before midday to rest their horses. The afflicted land produced no food, fodder, or drinkable water, but the druid's and Paladin's _Create Food_ and _Create Water_ spells, ensured that horses and people were well fed, and their thirsts slaked.

The land was warm, still and oppressive. Thalweg, 'Trissa and the mercenaries were all lightly armoured, there being no need for defense as nothing lived in the dying wilderness. Cloaks and robes had been rolled and stashed, making for a more comfortable ride. The horses were nervous, the mercenaries edgy.

"Too quiet", said Ansen. "Not even a thrush or sparrow. And not one mouse. A barren realm."

Torlin pointed to some hills that lay to the northwest. "We'll be there in a few hours. Still time to run away."

No one appreciated the joke. Shrugging his shoulders, the thief turned to the elf.

"Soranyll? You and the druid agree that the demon is some form of… what did you call it? A Nightshade. What would stop it from returning home to its Hell?"

"Plane of Shadow. Possibly the Plane of Death. Subtly different from a Hell dimension…. Oh, my apologies. I see by your faces that I am pontificating."

"Yes, you are. Again." Complained Thalweg. "We shorter lived species don't have much patience. Where were we…? Oh, yes. I've been thinking about this. We set off the guarding spell on the crown when we entered the cave fifteen years ago. Must have been close to the damn thing. We had torches and light spells, but I recall that the creature, the demon, stepped out of a corner of blackness. Scared the shit out me. We let it have everything we had. Swords, staves, axes, javelin and crossbow, and spells both arcane and holy. Yet, in minutes, four of us were dead, and three more physically wounded and soul stricken. If it weren't for Tanii getting us out of there…"

As the Baron spoke, Torlin relived those moments. The shouts that had turned to screams, the cold, the rising fear. He was breathing faster, his eyes focused on the not so distant hills. His mouth was dry and… a hand touched his. He jerked as if woken from a deep sleep. 'Trissa was standing beside him, her right hand in his left.

"Are you alright?" She asked quietly, a concerned look on her face.

Torlin nodded and squeezed her hand. Turning to Thalweg, the thief refuted one of Thalweg's recollections.

"No holy spells, remember Luthor? From what I recall Brother Crispen could not cast any. He was cursing his own god for that. Even without holy magic he fought bravely but was severely wounded. It's difficult to remember much after that. The terror. That thing's touch."

The thief shivered but composed himself. Still looking at Thalweg, the thief continued.

"You've never spoken to Crispen about this? He has lived with you for several years."

"Of course, I have", retorted the Baron. "Or tried to. He remembers even less than you and I."

"Maybe holy magic doesn't work on it", posed Soranyll?

"It does", declared the druid, firmly. "I've worked hard at keeping that thing's unholy influence at bay. Spells granted me by the Forest Father have an impact. But they are only truly effective if cast from beyond the area of _desecration_. Druids garner their power from the living world. Surrounded by this", Ansen pointed to the wasted land around them, "we have limited power."

"Then it is very brave of you good druid to accompany us to the demon's lair and stand against it with us", said 'Trissa.

"Hmm? Oh, Yes! Would love to. Really. But that's not quite possible... So, sorry, but no." mumbled Ansen.

"What"? barked 'Trissa, in a dangerous voice.

Soranyll glared at the druid, then looked and scowled at Thalweg. "You knew?"

"Crap. We're dead", declared Torlin.

"Nothing has changed", protested Thalweg. "It is we four against the beast, with help from my mercenaries to secure the crown. Druid Beekeeper has helped us get this far, quickly and safely. So, stow the doom and gloom! Now mount up and move out. We've still some miles to go."

Mumbling and muttering to themselves, the thief, Paladin and elf set out, followed by the mercenaries. The Baron and druid trailed at the rear of the column.

**A**fter a few more hours of riding, the druid guided them off the moraine and down onto the moor. Here the ground was marshy; the horses struggling to move at anything like a decent pace. A half hour later, the party clambered up onto drier terrain. Scattered, broken, dead tree trunks soon gave way to an open field, covered in decaying grasses and leaves. A half mile ahead of them stood the hills.

"Other than all the plants being dead, this looks frighteningly familiar", said the thief to the elf.

As the companions got closer to the hills, three cave mouths could be seen.

"Lowest, largest one, to the left", asked the mage?

"Yup", was Thalweg's terse response.

At about twenty yards from the cave mouth Thalweg called a halt.

"Druid Beekeeper, can you provide water for the horses?"

"Aye. My power is limited but not absent. As it would be in there", he said pointing at the entrance to the crown's resting place.

"Good. Flint", the Baron turned to the boy. "We may be coming out of there in a damned hurry. Need the horses ready to go. Keep them on a long picket, but do not hobble them. Watch our rear. Good lad. The rest of you, prepare yourselves."

Dorcen caught Thalweg's eye and nodded his head at the Baron, grateful and relieved that his nephew was being left as far from danger as possible.

Thalweg dismounted and walked over to one of the pack horses, removing a long, heavy canvas wrapped package. Placing it on the ground he opened it, stepped back, and called Soranyll over.

"These rightfully belong to you now. They might help us." The Baron pointed to four fine silvered steel swords. Recovered by Thalweg after their battle with the undead, the four swords were the only serviceable ones remaining of the eleven that had belonged to the members of King Tristan's Elven Guard.

Soranyll picked up two of the swords, and after a moment's hesitation, walked over to Dill and Toto.

"You came to us with nothing. Take these and use them in our service", he declared, passing a blade to each man.

The elf picked up a third blade, handing it to Dorcen.

"For whomever in your company you think worthy", he whispered to the mercenary.

Dorcen nodded to the elf, looked quickly at Beatrix, then drew his own blade and passed it to Flint. He then sheathed the elven sword, which ill-fit his scabbard.

The druid ambled over to Thalweg, who was belting his chain mail shirt. His helmet, sword and shield lay at his boot-clad feet. The Baron had braided his hair into a long, single plait. It hung down his back and was now tucked under his mail shirt. His helmet would cover it and hold it in place, preventing an enemy from taking a grip on it.

"Whatever you did fifteen years ago has kept the demon from returning to its home plane", said Ansen. "A combination of spells or magical devices – something - dispelled, destroyed or blocked its gate. It will be some pissed off."

"Don't suppose you or Soranyll could open a pathway back to Hell for it?"

"Certainly", replied the druid. "But as it's reason for being here is to guard the crown, it would not leave until after you were all dead, and the crown safe."

The druid looked up at the clear blue sky. "What a shame you cannot lure it outside. A lovely sunny afternoon. Just the thing a Nightshade dreads. Ah, I know what you are about to say, Baron. No. Light spells will harm, even destroy lower order undead, but they only inconvenience this thing."

Thalweg grunted a reply, finished readying his equipment and went to inspect his troops.

Soranyll called out to Torlin. "Come here that I might give you the pendant and tell you how to use it!"

Torlin walked over to the elf, who insisted on placing the pendant around Torlin's neck himself. "Now, place it under your jerkin. Reveal it only when I say so", Soranyll instructed, a little loudly.

"These are the command words to activate the pendant." Soranyll leaned in close to Torlin and whispered three phrases in Elvish into the thief's right ear. The elf then stooped over and claimed the fourth sword for himself.

**A**nsen and 'Trissa stood before the assembled company. The druid raised his staff. "Blessings of the Green Father be upon you. Good Luck."

'Trissa, held her shield low so that all could see her face and holy symbol. The red carved icon hung midway between throat and sternum on a fine, strong chain, secured to her armour. The Paladin touched the horse head symbol, bowed her head and cast three spells as she recited a blessing.

"My Goddess, the 'Lady of Strategy'. _Bless_ us and provide _Aid_. We ask that you _Protect us from evil_. May we find the strength and courage to earn a lasting victory."

"Right", called out Thalweg. "Low ceiling until you reach the main chamber. Weapons at the ready! Let's go!"

Thalweg, at point, started a cautious but determined march toward the cave entrance. Soranyll and 'Trissa were each a yard behind him, the elf to his right, the Paladin on his left. The elf held his short staff in his left hand, and a keen elven blade in his right. The Paladin placed her shield at the ready, her mace held too tightly in her right hand. She forced herself to relax her grip before her hand cramped.

Jimkar, Dill and Beatrix trailed the elf, weapons at the ready. Toto, Dorcen and Torlin followed the Paladin. The thief's crossbow was cocked but he kept the silver tipped quarrel in his right hand and out of the bow's flight groove. If both cocked and armed, a trip or fall could fire the bolt. Accidently shooting a member of one's own party was bad form.

The cave entrance was about eight feet wide and of a similar height. A pile of dead leaves and the bleached bones of a large deer or elk lay across their path. At Soranyll's command, dancing lights formed around the party. One small floating, glowing nimbus for each of them.

Circling both the piles of leaves and bones, Luthor Thalweg, Baron of Crescent and Knight of the Lakes, entered the dark cave followed by his companions.


	19. Face Your Demons

**Demon Haunt – Part 2**

**Once again, this is a chapter that uses POV from several different characters. I hope that the section breaks (scene and narrative shifts) are clear. Sorry for the delay in getting this up. Summer. You know.**

**I tried adding a map, but have had no luck, so I made the map my Author Image for this story. Hope it works out and helps.**

* * *

**Chapter 19 – Face Your Demons**

**T**he floating lights conjured by Soranyll cast a soft glow, allowing the party to see about twenty feet ahead. They slowly advanced a dozen yards from the cave entrance to where two side passages branched off the main tunnel, one to the right, the other to the left. Thalweg motioned to Beatrix to follow the right-hand tunnel, and to Dorcen to go left. Smiling grimly, he indicated to his three companions that they were to follow him into the main tunnel, which he knew from experience, opened into a wide, high-ceilinged chamber.

Beatrix, Dill and Jimkar moved cautiously up the right-hand tunnel, their companion lights floating eerily above their heads.

As Dorcen and Toto went up the other tunnel, Torlin caught the Paladin's eye and raised a finger to his lips. Seeing that Thalweg's attention was focused ahead of them, the thief flicked a hand at the dancing light above his head, extinguishing it. He pulled his shadow cloak around himself and slipped into a patch of darkness, vanishing from 'Trissa's sight.

Alarmed, the Paladin turned to Soranyll and was about to voice her concern about Torlin not following their plan, when she saw the elf, also with a finger raised to his lips, looking at her. Bemused, she shook her head at Soranyll, indicating that she did not understand what was happening.

Nodding, the elf stepped closer and whispered, "Have faith".

Faith? In what? In whom? The thief, or Soranyll? Torlin had proved himself a useful if irritating ally, and an enjoyable bedmate, but that did not mean she trusted him. She did trust Soranyll. Shaking her head, she quietly followed the Baron and the elf into the main tunnel.

* * *

**T**orlin quietly tailed Dorcen and Toto. With swords drawn, the mercenaries had turned into the first chamber. Light from their magic lanterns spilled out from the room. The thief knew from his first visit to the cave that they would find three modest sized chambers opening onto along this tunnel.

Torlin silently walked past the first chamber into the darkness. Stopping, he reached beneath his leather armour and pulled out the pendant that Soranyll had given him. Hung on a fine silver chain that had been worked to resemble a bow string, was a pearl. It was the same pendant that Soranyll had shown Torlin in Vintesse. According to the elf, this tricky little fake had several abilities other than pulsating like a heartbeat. Touching the pearl, the thief spoke an elvish command that the mage had quickly whispered into his ear before they entered the cave. The pearl emitted a faint yellow light that grew in intensity the longer he concentrated on it. When sufficiently bright for his purposes Torlin shielded the pearl so that only a sliver of light escaped his cupped hand. He quickly slipped down the tunnel to the third chamber – the furthest point that he had got in his explorations fifteen years ago.

No glimmer of light was visible elsewhere in the cave tunnel. Other than the occasional rustle of his own clothing, no sound could be heard. Torlin paused for a moment, whispered a prayer to whatever deity might care about a thief, then entered the chamber. Broken wooden crates and piles of indeterminable somethings lay strewn about the floor. The space was near circular and about thirty feet in diameter. He stepped to the center of the room.

Nothing happened. No talons raking his soul. No chill air numbing his body. No screams or shouts from the others. He must not be close enough to the hidden crown to awake the demon. That meant that a decade and a half ago it had been neither he nor Leanorall who had summoned the creature by approaching the trapped crown. Thalweg's prize must be in either the main chamber or somewhere along the eastern tunnel that his long dead companions of yesteryear had explored. No matter. His primary goal was not Tristan's crown.

Passing back into the western tunnel, Torlin saw the narrow opening in the far wall, which he knew led to the main chamber. Entering it, he quickly slipped through the tight passageway and peered into the larger cavern. Several dozen yards back towards the cave entrance he could see three floating lanterns, one each over the heads of the elf, the Baron, and the Paladin. His three companions were spread out across the chamber slowly advancing towards its far end, trying to cover as much ground as possible in their search for the crown. Except for those auras of light, the remaining space was as black as pitch.

Returning to his peripheral tunnel, Torlin followed the corridor which now more resembled worked stone rather than naturally formed walls. The corridor curved to the right. If the arc of the corridor continued as it was going, it looked to take him around and behind the main chamber. He wondered if it connected with the eastern tunnel, where Beatrix, Jimkar and Dill searched.

Several yard farther along he noticed a faint glow suffusing the corridor. He closed his hand, extinguishing the light from the pearl. There was a gap in the wall to his left, about fifteen feet high and almost as wide. The glow seemed to emanate from beyond that gap. The corridor he was in continued past the opening and was lost in darkness.

Slipping a silver tipped quarrel into his crossbow, Torlin tiptoed to what he assumed was an entranced to another chamber. He could only see a part of one side wall beyond the opening. The glow was stronger in there. With his back against the corridor wall, he could feel an odd vibration. His heart was beating faster, his breathing was shallower. He forced himself to slow. Breathe. Slower. Slower. Good. Move… now!

Keeping close to the wall, Torlin stepped quickly into compartment. The room was filled with a soft yellow light. No shadows in which to hide. There was something in the center of the room! He raised his crossbow, then slowly lowered it.

The room was near square and some forty feet from side to side. In the middle of the room stood a vertical, solid black, shimmering circle ten feet in diameter. The bottom of the circle touched the cave floor, the top of it extended halfway to the ceiling.

Suspended in the middle of the circle, eyes half-closed, and with arms and legs spread wide, floated a female elf.

* * *

**E**ntering the main chamber, 'Trissa felt a soft, cool breeze on her face. There was no light, no phosphorescence, no glimmer of _faerzress_. Just blackness and silence, except for where they stood. She reached out and gently touched the elf and the Baron on their shoulders.

"As the creature radiates or creates 'fear', I shall ask my Goddess to protect us all from terror and dread", she said, bowing her head, and casting _'Heroism_' on her companions.

"Odd", responded Thalweg. "I do not feel any braver. You are certain that she…" Thalweg pointed to the Paladin's holy symbol… "is answering your prayers? Last time we were here our Cleric's faith failed him. And us."

'Trissa offered the Baron a condescending smile.

"Oh yes, Luthor. I can feel her presence. She stands with me." The assurance given to Thalweg and Soranyll was in 'Trissa's voice but the odd lilt that she'd fallen into using from time to time was there again.

Thalweg looked around them. "Where's my damned thief?"

"He has other duties to attend to, mi' lord", answered Soranyll, pulling back his cloak and revealing King Tristan's gold and onyx pendant, now hung around his neck. "It is best if one skilled in magic uses this pendant."

"What? Soranyll, Torlin has faced this thing before. Knows what to expect. He or I stand the best chance of surviving its attacks. We need you to stand back and unleash your magics on the demon, not be the focus of its attention!"

Thalweg was more than angry. He was livid that his battle strategy had been changed at the last minute. Damn all mages and thieves! They just could not follow orders or stick to a plan!

"What in the name of the Nine Hells is more important than the crown?" The Baron managed to both roar and whisper at the same time - an interesting vocal feat.

Soranyll regarded the Baron for several breaths. "He is to rescue Leonorall, my niece."

The Baron and the Paladin stared wide-eyed at the elven mage.

"But… but that was only a ploy to entice Torlin to join Luthor", stammered the Paladin. "You three all admitted that she is dead!"

Thalweg glared at the elf. "Soranyll…"

The elf drew himself up, standing almost as tall as the Baron. "Know this, Lady Lutrissa. Luthor assured me that Torlin would only consider undertaking this journey to save Leanorall. He has no interest in who becomes king. But even that ploy was insufficient to lend your thief to our cause. However, circumstances did help bring him to us."

Soranyll paused a moment, considering his next words carefully. "This was also true of you, fair Paladin. Political intrigue, crowns and kings might not have tempted you, either. But a damsel in distress? It seemed a more virtuous cause for a first quest."

'Trissa scowled at the elf. "And what of Luthor?"

The elf nodded. "I've known Luthor a long time. The Baron would never risk lives returning to Bakklar Moor to attempt to save someone he believed lost or dead. And he was convinced that Leanorall was dead. But he would risk all for the true crown. The recovery of the crown was my ploy to entice Luthor to travel here so that I could free Leanorall."

'Trissa had been around Luthor long enough to become accustomed to harsh language, but what now issued from the Baron's mouth was astonishing in its inventiveness, crudeness, and complete physically impossibility of the uses of various human, animal and demonic body parts.

"Leanorall is alive", asked 'Trissa?

"Probably", stated the elf.

"'PROBABLY?" Thalweg looked as if he were about to unleash another tirade upon the elf, when 'Trissa interjected.

"Is the crown here", she asked?

"Likely so", answered the elf.

Thalweg stood with his mouth agape, his sword hand twitching. A seizure seemed imminent.

"The crown is somewhere in these hills, in one of the caves. I just do not recall exactly which one. It has been centuries! The presence of the demon in this cave suggests that it, or some other treasure, is nearby! Would you care to bet, Paladin, that the treasure it guards is not the true crown?"

"If the demon doesn't kill you Soranyll, then I will", promised Thalweg, moving forward into the darkness. The elf and Paladin followed, spreading out to the right of the furious Baron, the elf taking the center.

"Keep alert", snarled Thalweg. "And do not step on the damn thing! I want to present the crown to Duke Storm in one piece!"

* * *

**S**he was aware of a presence. Movement. A voice. This was very different from the nightmares which accompanied visits from that Thing. Those were all about fear. Fear, and claws trying to rend her to pieces. To feed on her.

Through half-closed eyes she saw something moving towards her. No. Not a something. A someone. It was not the Thing that had trapped her here. That was huge. It could barely fit in through the gap in the wall. This was human. A man in a black cloak, hood up. He was speaking. Now he was gone. Oh, he had returned. He said something in elvish. _'Dispel'_? Now he was reaching up. He grabbed hold of her arms and was pulling her forward, straining to do so. He was strong. She fell.

Dizzy. She was so dizzy. He caught her! Now he was letting her down on the cave floor. It was cool. And rough. He was speaking to her again. Where had she heard that voice before? The man was offering her something. A small metal flask with a red stopper. She tried reaching for it but missed. The man removed the flask's lid and held it up to her mouth. How kind!

Fire coursed down her throat. Her stomach burned! Now the fire was spreading through her limbs! Her eyes hurt. _Alobal's_ ass! What was in that?

Coughing, Leonorall sat up. The dizziness passed. She looked at the man who sat on the ground next to her. He had pulled back the hood of his cloak. She knew him! She had to clear her throat a few times before being able to speak.

"Torlin? You look awful, lover. What is going on? Did we kill it?"

The thief looked at his former companion, still not really believing that she was here, alive, sitting beside him, regarding him with her deep green eyes. So lovely. And dusty. Her clothing and leather armour were in tatters. Pieces had fallen away when he had torn her down from the circle. Her hair, once a radiant flowing mane, now hung in damp, dirty strands plastered against her head.

She was inspecting him just as closely. His hair was shorter and greying at the sides. There were lines on the thief's face that had not been there before… before, what? The wrinkles at the corner of his eyes were also new. She did not recognize his clothing.

"How long?" She asked in a shaky voice.

"Just over fifteen years."

Leanorall swallowed and sighed. "Not so bad, for an elf."

"How have you have survived", asked Torlin? "We thought you dead!"

The elf sighed. She looked around the room. Fifteen years? Here? Why had they left her? Because they thought her dead, just as Torlin had stated. They would never have left her otherwise. She cleared her throat again. Torlin handed her his waterskin. She drank deeply. So thirsty. When did water ever taste so good? Nodding her thanks, Leanorall strove to recall what had happened.

"When the battle started, I was in the tunnels with you. Yes? I remember we squeezed through a small passage and entered the main chamber. Oh, no! Dalin! We… we saw him die!"

Leanorall stopped speaking. She shook her head and wiped away a tear, then continued.

"It is coming back to me." She paused. "I could see Karyla and Biorn... their bodies… Luthor was badly wounded. You ran to stand beside Crispen. I saw that thing's claws reaching for you both. Tanii called retreat. I had never been so scared. Fear drove me out of the chamber. Once back in the tunnel… I was confused. I ran the wrong way and came in here."

"I recognized that," she pointed to the ebon circle that loomed over them, "as a gate. A portal. I knew not to where, but at that moment, in my fear, anywhere was better than here. I was going to enter it when the demon came into the room. It saw me. It spoke. I do not know what it said but the words hurt my ears. It must have been some sort of area effect spell, or command, acting upon the portal. I tried backing away from the monster and found myself stuck fast, part way through the portal. I felt terribly dizzy and remember being chilled. I fell into a stupor, regaining half-consciousness on occasion but never awake enough, or strong enough, to free myself. I had a recurring nightmare where that Thing's talons ripped me apart and it fed on me. It all seemed so real. But I am in one piece."

Leanorall was shaking. Torlin drew her close. "Steady, girl."

Somewhat comforted, the elf laughed. "You know I hate it when you call me that! I am six times your age, thief."

"It does feed on people", stated Torlin. "On their souls. Yours should have been ripped away. Frozen in place like that - how could you have avoided that terrible fate?"

The elf maid pointed to the pearl that hung about her neck, the twin to the stone that Torlin now wore.

"This is enchanted. Made for me by my Clan. Years ago, my uncle placed a permanent _Greater Protection from Evil_ spell on it. Although I may have been held by whatever protects the portal, the creature could not attack me. Nor could it pass close by me to access the portal. That seemed to anger it greatly."

"You and your uncle can work out the mechanics of magic later. I'd guess your protected presence blocked the demon's retreat. It has been here, in these caves, for the last decade and a half. We must get out of here before our idiot Baron finds the crown and wakes the creature!"

"Baron? Crown?" Asked Leonorall.

"I'll explain later."

The thief and the elf had been so absorbed in their conversation that neither had heard, seen or sensed the approach of another. Torlin's first hint of danger was when a sword came to rest on his right shoulder, the cold edge of the blade touching the side of his neck.

"Where's the damn crown", asked Dill?

Torlin swore under his breath. How careless of him - sitting with his back to an opening.

"Baron Thalweg not paying you enough, Dill?"

"There are others who'll pay me more. Who's yer friend?"

The thief ignored Dill's question.

"Who are you working for, Dill? Blue Blades, the Warden, the Guild?"

"Fer myself. My only interest is who pays me the most", responded Dill.

"Ah. Then perhaps we can make a deal", suggested Torlin?

"Hah ! Why is it every man with a sword to his throat wants to make a deal? Jimkar tried that. 'Cept he had nothin' to deal with. I don't need partners. Where's the crown?"

To add emphasis to his query Dill pressed his sword into Torlin's neck, opening a thin red line in the skin. Torlin flinched, hunching his shoulders, and raising his hands slightly. He tilted his head to this left trying to put distance between his neck and the steel of Dill's elvish blade.

Satisfied that he had cowed the surly thief, Dill relaxed his stance.

Torlin felt the weight of the sword on his shoulder increase. It was a subtle but definite change. Dill was letting more of the sword's weight rest on the thief, easing the strain of holding the blade against Torlin's neck. With his sword essentially grounded, Dill's ability to move it quickly was hampered.

The thief's right hand flashed upward catching the tip of the sword which extended just past his shoulder and knocking it aside. Ignoring the nasty cut he received, Torlin flung himself backwards. He was now lying on the cave floor at Dill's feet. The ex-convict swore and pulled his sword back. Swinging it up behind him, his intention was to bring it down onto the thief in a fatal slash.

Jabbing upwards left-handed from his prone position, Torlin buried his dagger's slender blade in Dill's left knee.

Screaming and off balance, Dill lurched to his right. Losing his grip on his dagger, Torlin rolled towards the man, trying to keep inside the arc of the deadly elven blade. From a crouch, the thief reached up and grasped Dills right wrist, immobilizing the sword. Fighting through searing pain, Dill grabbed Torlin's right hand with his left hand. The two men strained against each other.

Dill, tall and lanky, had the advantage of reach and leverage. But almost all his weight was on his right leg. Torlin had the more secure position but could not stand up, nor free his right hand from Dill's fevered grip to reach for another weapon. And letting go of Dill's sword hand was not an option. He'd be skewered in a second.

The two men struggled; Torlin to stand, Dill to prevent the thief from rising.

Leanorall, half-sitting, half-lying on the floor, stretched out, reaching for Torlin's crossbow, which he had propped up against the wall before yanking her from the portal. She pulled the weapon over and raised it, aiming awkwardly at the two combatants. Still woozy. Was the room swaying! She tried to compensate for the moving room. It was like being on a ship. She tilted to the right. Nope, too far. She was sighting at Torlin. She leaned left. The tall man came in view then passed by. Too far the other way. She was aiming at a wall! A little more to the right. Now. No. More left. _Ud__ǘ__n!_ She was getting queasy.

Although the two men were locked in death grips, a string of elvish curses caught their attention. Looking to their side, they saw the elven maid less than three yards away, kneeling and pointing a crossbow at them. 'Aiming' would have been too generous a word to use, as the elf's swaying from side to side precluded anything that accurate. As the bow settled first on one of them, then the other, their struggles became less furious. They both shouted "No" at the same time, just as Leanorall triggered the crossbow.

The bolt took Dill in his right side, just under his outstretched arm. Coughing blood, the ex-convict slumped forward. Torlin twisted, pushing his opponent to the floor. Drawing another dagger, he quickly ended the betrayer's life with a slash across his throat.

The thief recovered his dagger from Dill's leg, cleaned both blades, and sheathed them before turning to Leanorall.

"Nice shot", he said flatly.

"You are welcome", responded the elf proudly, apparently not recognizing the sardonic tone in the thief's voice.

Shaking his head, Torlin took his crossbow from the elf's hands.

"I think you need to rest a bit more before you attempt to leave here. Also, I should check to see that the path is clear. Your uncle warned me that there was a spy in our party." Torlin indicated Dill's body. "But this wasn't the one he warned me about."

"My uncle is here? Where?"

Before Torlin could answer, a soul-chilling wail echoed through the caverns.

* * *

**B**ased on his memory of the cave system, the Baron calculated that they had covered over two-thirds the distance to the main chamber's far wall. They had passed several wide stalagmites, some joined with stalactites, forming bizarre columns. Rotted and rusted armour and weapons lay strewn about, attesting to others' encounters with the demon. He could not be certain which, if any, of those relics belonged to his former comrades.

But no crown.

Ten yards farther and the trios' dancing lights touched something opaque and unyielding. At the same time, Soranyll's elvish blade flared, shining with a blue light.

An eerie keening rose from the darkness. It quickly grew in intensity, hurting their ears and sending chills through their bodies. Raising their hand to their ears, unable to bear the soul-searing wail, Soranyll and 'Trissa froze where they stood.

Stepping part way out of its cocoon of darkness, the Demon turned to face Luthor.

**The big one… smelled… familiar. Small lights - annoying. **

Thalweg hesitated. _Torm_, he half-swore and half-prayed. It was bigger than he remembered. He could see his own breath in the light cast by the magic lantern that floated above his head. He must keep its attention off the mage. Raising his shield, he slammed his sword against it, the metallic crash echoing off the cavern walls, startling himself. A flicker of black flame danced along the blade edge.

"Not yet, girl", the Baron whispered.

The Soul Reaver, still mostly obscured by its protective darkness, rocked back and forth.

**Magic is sensed. And another demon? Only a lesser-demon. And vile Holiness, from the one in silver and white.**

The echo of sword against shield roused Soranyll from his stupor. The demon's cry had numbed mind and body. He was freezing! Invoking his cloak's elemental powers, he quickly warmed himself then turned his attention to Tristan's pendant. He had had a few days to study the protection amulet. Attempting to transmute the pendant's created purpose of '_protection from_' to '_control of_' a demon, required the use of a lot of arcane power. It was not something any half sane mage would try on the fly. Time to live up to his vaunted title of 'Lore-Master'!

"Hell and Shadow spawn", the elf addressed the Nightshade, at the same time throwing his cloak back, revealing the King's pendant. "Hold!"

A dozen spells were simultaneously tumbling through Soranyll's mind as he focused his will upon his staff. He channeled the portions of each spell he needed into the device, dismissing the rest from his mind. An old cantrip from his magic-school days popped into his head. That was useless… No! Wait! It was a simple spell from the Transmutation school, but it suggested a way to alter rather than remove the base spell structure laid down by Karistides on the pendant... There! He had it!

_Corellon_ be praised!

Touching the pendant with his staff, Soranyll transferred a substantial amount of eldritch energy into the pendant. Energy that he formed with his Will into a pattern that altered the purpose of the pendant. It was an ugly, artless spell, barely respecting the Laws of Magic. Something more akin to Sorcery than Wizardry. And it could not be sustained for long. He would have failed any student who presented a similar mess to him.

But, Soranyll had done in the space of a few breaths what would have taken most mages days or more to accomplish. He again addressed the demon, commanding it to stay in place.

"_Hold!_"

The Soul Reaver paused its rocking, standing still. Or was it sitting? Darkness clung to it, obscuring Soranyll's view.

'Lore-Master' indeed! It had worked. But at what cost? A dozen spells or their equivalent in magical energy, gone. Some permanently. And the weapon-morphing ability of his spell staff might never recover.

Thalweg called out, relieved. "I did not think that was going to work!"

"Nor did I", replied Soranyll. The elf's intense focus on magic had caused him to forget about the cold emptiness that ran through him. But now, with only one spell on which to concentrate, he could feel dread rising up inside. He increased his focus.

"No offense, Soranyll. But I really thought the thing would shred you to pieces, then turn on the rest of us!"

"Luthor –"

"I will never disparage Elven magics again!"

Soranyll stood with feet wide apart, staff and glowing sword both raised above his head. His gaze was steadfastly fixed on the dark, hulking, shadowed form a mere six yards in front of him.

"Baron! Shut up and get looking for your damned prize! I cannot control it for long!"

"Oh. Right."

Thalweg moved away from the Soul Reaver, his gaze on the ground around him. Talking had kept the re-kindled fear at bay, but he could feel it returning. Focus on something else, dammit! He hastened his search. Nothing behind that column. The damned creature was probably sitting on the crown! The floor of the cave was bare over there. Thalweg reached the back wall of the chamber. Still nothing. He followed the chamber's curved rear wall to the east. More nothing. Wait… was that an old sword hilt? And a few metal plates. Remains of armour, likely. Now he could see a knee-high boulder a little further away. Behind the boulder was… a small chest or box. It was dust covered but looked to be made of wood. About a cubit by a cubit in length and width, two spans or so in height. Just the right size to hold a… Shit! He was too close to it!

The Baron retreated. But it was too late. His approach to the ancient crown triggered the Soul Reaver's protective response. Breaking from the elf's control, the Demon voiced a second wail. This cry was louder, harsher, more terrifying than the first. The hell-spawned creature lurched to its right, heading towards Luthor.

* * *

**T**orlin shuddered. His breathing quickened. A hurried glanced at Leanorall showed her to be, apparently, unaffected by the hellish cry. Elven immunity?

Leanorall noticed both Torlin's reaction to the Reaver's wail and his furtive look at her.

"Hearing that, or feeling its presence, every day for fifteen years… well, it has a numbing effect", she stated.

Burying his fear as deep as he could, Torlin nodded, squared his shoulders, and hoisted his crossbow higher. He was trembling inside. Locking eyes with his former companion, he spoke, trying desperately to hide the quaver in his voice.

"As I said. Gather your strength. Rest here, but only for a moment. It would be safest if you follow the corridor to the right. The tunnels are unchanged from the last time you traversed them. You might meet two mercenaries, Dorcen and Toto. Avoid them." Torlin nudged Dill's body with his toe. "Just in case their loyalties have also shifted."

Torlin peered out of the portal room and into the tunnel.

"Get out of the caves", he continued. "You'll find a crazy old druid and a boy tending our horses. Wait there. If Thalweg and I do not survive this, then ride southeast to Sert's farm. They know the way."

"What are you going to do", Leanorall asked?

"One more throat to slit, then I too, am out of here", declared the thief, exiting the room and turning left up the tunnel.

Leanorall leaned against the cool cave wall. "Rest here!" She had been 'resting' for a decade and a half! Impertinent little thief! She staggered to her feet. More of her rotted clothing and armour fell away. The room swayed, but not as much as before. Slowly bending over, she retrieved the tall man's weapon from the floor. That started the room spinning again. She focused on the blade. An excellent Elven weapon. Good edge. Finely balanced.

She looked down at… what had Torlin called him? Dill? Too tall. Nothing he wore would fit her. And his clothing was bloody. Ah, well. Half-naked was half-clothed. She tottered out of the room, following the thief.

* * *

**C**ursing, Soranyll cast _Light_ at the Soul Reaver, then immediately closed his eyes. Light flashed over the Reaver's head then was immediately reflected onto the elf. If one were to have magic turned back upon oneself, then best it was a minor spell! Opening his eyes was like walking out of a dark room into the light of day. Squinting, the elf released another spell at the demon.

An ice bolt arced across the chamber from Soranyll's staff. An instant before it touched the fiend it blinked out of view only to suddenly reappear in front of the elven mage. Soranyll's cloak took most of the cold damage, but a fragment of ice pierced his right shoulder. Damn! The demon's spell-turning effect was still potent! The elf staggered back, thankful that he had used a lesser version of his _Ice Lance_ spell. Focusing on the pain made the fear abate, somewhat.

A rosy-hued light blazed overhead, illuminating the cave.

The demon gave voice a third time, but now it was a cry of pain.

* * *

**T**he numbing apprehension that had spread through 'Trissa's body after the demon's first screech had faded. She gathered herself and started to move towards Soranyll.

The fiend's second scream stopped her in mid-stride.

'_Goddess_', that was sickening. She felt revulsion, disgust. As if there were a stain on her soul.

'What you feel is 'desecration', voiced a presence in her head. 'others, those less close to the 'sacred', feel it as fear.'

'_I am going to faint!'_

'DON'T YOU DARE!'

'_Then I am going to throw up!'_

'THAT IS PERMISSIBLE.'

'Trissa bent over and vomited onto the cave floor. Swaying slightly, the Paladin straightened and wiped her mouth with the back of a gloved fist. She saw Soranyll, awkwardly holding onto his staff and sword, and clutching his shoulder. Thalweg was some distance away. She could not see him clearly. The Baron seemed to be looking at something on the ground beside him. The demon was slithering out of its sheath of blackness and moving towards the Baron!

She shouted Luthor's name and cast.

'_Daylight'_ lit the cave. It was if dawn had woken the world after a terrible storm. Red and pink fingers of light spread out, banishing the darkness. Far brighter than the weak light offered by Soranyll's '_Dancing Lights_' and of a greater intensity, duration and area of effect than the mage's own '_Light_' cantrip, which surrounded him, the Paladin's spell caused the demon to halt its dash towards the Baron and cover its face, shielding its eyes. It cried out again, but this time it was a yowl of pain.

'WHY THAT SPELL? IT DOES ONLY MINOR DAMAGE TO THE FIEND.'

'_I could not see enough of the battlefield to judge our best movements. Now I can. And while magical light may not kill the Reaver, it will disturb it. Also, I prefer to be able to see what it is that I am fighting.'_

'A SOUND STRATEGY.'

'_I take that last comment back. It is hideous. I may puke, again.'_

The Paladin's _Daylight_ spell brightly lit the northern part of the main chamber. Stalagmites, stalactites, boulders, and small pits on the cave floor were exposed. The Soul Reaver's cocoon of darkness dissolved in the glare of the sacred radiance. The creature was peering out from behind its claws, eyes already adjusting to the hateful, hurtful light.

Turning its back to Thalweg, the demon's gaze sought out the Paladin.

_The Soul Reaver was over twenty feet in length and ten feet high, its rear legs thick and powerful, looking much how 'Trissa assumed a dragon's legs might look. The mid-body was snake-like with the back being high-arched. Long front arms ended in large, hooked talons. It had a short, thick neck and a bulbous head with a bestial face that sported three large, yellow, baleful eyes, and a drooling gash for a mouth. A pair of stunted, leathery wings grew from its back, which was covered in needle-like spikes. Its entire body was covered by greenish-black, oily skin. The nightshade shifted position slightly, showing another ten feet of whip-like tail._

Not sure what was going to overcome her first, the cold knot of fear inside her or her churning stomach, 'Trissa reset her grip on her shield, hoisted her mace, and started once more to move to Soranyll's position. Unsteady steps became firmer, her stride longer, more certain.

'GO GET 'EM!'

'_I need a plan, not approbation!'_

'DID YOU NOT READ MASTER RESSNER'S '_TACTICS FOR MANAGING MONSTERS_'? I LIKE THE THIRD EDITION BEST.'

'_Must have missed that class. It looks like Soranyll needs healing. I'll keep the Reaver's attention on me. It is undead. Shouldn't be too hard. We keep spread out and let Baron Thalweg close with it from the side. We kill it before its talons go spectral and it starts feeding on our souls.'_

'YOU MAKE IT SOUND SO SIMPLE.'

Her _Commune_ with her Goddess ended as 'Trissa neared the elf. A brief touch on the mage's shoulder was all that was required for the Paladin to cast a _Cure Wounds_ spell.

"Don't waste anymore magic on it, Lore-Master. We'll need your steel to kill it!" The Paladin shouted as she passed the elf, advancing towards the demon.

Such impertinence thought Soranyll, as the Paladin passed by him. One more attempt. The mage focused his Will and released a spell using triple the amount of magical energy with which he would normally have used. The creature was rather large.

Uncertain as to the success or failure of his casting, the Mage concentrated on a simple command. He was interested in seeing how well the demon dealt with being suspended twenty feet above the ground!

Soranyll rapidly levitated for ten feet, then stopped himself from rising further a mere foot shy of a nasty looking, pointed stalactite that grew from the cave ceiling just above his head.

"_Erevan's_ Ears", he swore! Hopes of raising the beast into the air where it would be harmless and could be hacked to death, faded. Lowering himself to the ground, Soranyll firmly grasped staff and sword and set off after the Paladin.

* * *

**T**orlin proceeded several yards along the corridor before coming to an opening in the wall. Using the light from the pearl he peered into a modest sized room containing a few old crates piled in one corner. Jimkar's body lay sprawled against the far wall.

There were three sets of boot prints in the fine dust that covered the room's floor. Dill, Jimkar and Beatrix? The thief hurried to the mercenary's body. Dill had been telling the truth. Jimkar's throat had been cut. A quick check showed that the body had been rifled.

Dill had boasted that he did not need partners. If true, then Beatrix had had no part in her Jimkar's death. Which also meant that Beatrix had either been in the room before or after Jimkar was slain. Where was she? Dead in another room?

A faint sound from the tunnel caught Torlin's ears.

"For a Ranger, you make a lot of noise", he grumbled.

"I am still a little dizzy from whatever the hell you gave me to drink", groused Leanorall from the room's entranceway. "And that elixir is interfering with my darkvision.

"Get lost on your way out?"

Leanorall's reply was lost under the soul-rending second howl from the Reaver. The thief and ranger both dropped their weapons and tried, in vain, to clasp hands over ears. The elf dropped to one knee, tears forming in her eyes. _Solonor's Mercy_! That was far worse than anything she had experienced in her hellish sojourn!

Torlin was violently shaking his head, trying to block the sound. Bile rose in his throat. He had to get away from this place! He knew what came next. The talons! Run! Run! Was he screaming?

A third cry echoed through the tunnels. It… was a cry of pain, of fear, of doubt - from the Reaver.

Torlin stopped shaking. What in all Faerun could cause that thing fear? He looked at the elf. Her head was cocked to one side. She was listening intently. He thought he heard something. A shout?

"Spell casting", Leanorall stated. "And Luthor's battle-cry!"

Their fear fading, the duo picked up their weapons and unsteadily exited the room. A pinkish light spilled into the tunnel several feet to the south of them. It issued from a fissure in the tunnel's western wall.

**\- end Chapter 19 -**


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